


Harry's Apology

by valancyjane74



Series: Five Years Later (post quinquennium) [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abduction, Apologies, Auror Harry Potter, Businesswoman Pansy Parkinson, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chinese Food, Chocoballs, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Explicit Language, F/M, First Kiss, Handsy Hansy, Hansy - Freeform, Hugs, Kissing, Misogyny, POV Harry Potter, Parry - Freeform, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Slytherdor Relationships, Snogging in the archive room, Squabbling, Tenderness, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26892955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancyjane74/pseuds/valancyjane74
Summary: Hansy Gets Handsy in the Archive Room.An expanding ficlet that was originally written to describe what really happened between Harry Potter and Pansy Parkinson in Chapter 47 of my Dramione WiP.I've adapted chunks of previous chapters of NAEV to better explain Harry and Pansy's developing attraction: the original content can be found in Chapters 2 and 4.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter
Series: Five Years Later (post quinquennium) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821316
Comments: 66
Kudos: 51





	1. Prologue - Tiff

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nusquam aliud est vertere (Nowhere else to turn)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994118) by [valancyjane74](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancyjane74/pseuds/valancyjane74). 



> Many thanks to the supremely talented @dreamsofdramione for her gorgeous cover art - it is exactly what I pictured in my head.  
> Thank you with all my heart for your brilliant creative expertise and generosity.  
> It is so beautiful!!!  
> 💚❤💚❤💚

_Monday 17 March 2003: AM_

It is a short walk to Harry’s office. Macdolas does the honour of knocking, flinging open the door with gusto as Harry’s low voice grants them entry.

The modest space is filled with people and the enticing smell of hot food. Hermione blinks as she registers Pansy perched atop Harry’s desk; Blaise is occupying one of the two armchairs in front of it, Theo the other. Harry wrenches his brooding stare from Pansy as all the men rise at their approach.

“Hi, Harry, Pansy, Theo, Blaise,” Hermione gives Pansy a quick side hug, kisses Harry’s cheek, squeezes Theo’s wiry arm, and steps neatly out of Blaise’s way as he looms in for a tight embrace. Draco growls and blocks him anyway.

“I didn’t know you guys were joining us for lunch?” Hermione queries. From the corner of her eye, she notes Draco and Blaise tussling briefly over the chair; Draco claims it with a well-timed shove and beckons her over to sit in his lap. Hermione wiggles into it immediately, hiding a smile as he subtly adjusts his position when she mock-innocently rubs against his crotch.

“I ran into Theo when he was on his way up to meet with Blaise and Pansy half an hour ago; he suggested we should all sit down and brainstorm who could be behind the roofie plot,” Harry answers.

“Lightning Bolt told us what happened at your flat yesterday, Hermione – are you OK?” Pansy’s jade eyes gaze at her keenly. Harry makes a cross sound at the nickname, to which Pansy pays no heed.

“I’m fine, Pansy. I feel better knowing that my friends have my back,” she smiles gratefully.

“Whatever you need, Hermione; you only have to ask,” Theo affirms, as he sits back down. Harry remains standing.

“Parkinson – you can have my chair. I don’t know why you wouldn’t take it when I first offered it to you,” Harry gripes.

Pansy tosses her head imperiously. “I’d rather sit atop your desk – my luscious legs are displayed to their best advantage… and knowing that it irks you makes it all the sweeter, Potter,” she goads.

Harry scowls, choosing to ignore Pansy in favour of promoting the wide array of Chinese takeaway dishes to Hermione. “Here – I got your favourites, love. Honey chicken, special fried rice and sweet and sour pork. And beef in black bean sauce, Mongolian lamb, and prawn omelette. Plus there are spring rolls and crispy fried noodles in those white bags,” he points. “Paper plates and chopsticks on the side there.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Hermione quickly fills a single plate for herself and Draco, piling it high as she decides that it will be fun to share. Everyone else follows suit, Mac sidling up to the table ahead of Blaise and helping himself to a generous portion of each container. He sits down on a conveniently located metal filing cabinet and starts scarfing down his luncheon.

 _Watching Mac expertly wield chopsticks is truly a sight to behold_ , Hermione ponders, as she tucks into the delicious spread. Draco takes advantage of her momentary distraction to steal one of her battered pork morsels.

“Come sit in my lap, Golden Girl – I won’t nick your food,” Blaise promises, sitting beside Pansy and patting his strong thighs with his free hand.

Draco answers for her. “Get your own girlfriend, Zabini. Hermione’s mine.” He snuggles her a little closer, being mindful of the plate of food she holds.

Harry sighs. “Must you two constantly rub our noses in your overblown romance?” he snipes; his remonstration carries a sharp edge that is markedly unlike his usually equable temperament.

 _Poor Harry – he is taking on too much. He still looks dog-tired: he mustn’t have gotten a wink of sleep last night._ Hermione doesn’t get a chance to soothe her old friend’s unrest before Pansy jumps in.

“Leave off, Lightning Bolt! Just because you’re a bitter bachelor – it doesn’t give you the right to piss all over our friends’ happiness,” she censures. “Look to what’s lacking in your own life before you criticize other people’s.”

Harry stands up, gripping the edge of his sturdy desk as he snarls, “Going to bang that drum again, Pansy? Since when did you become such an advocate for sloppy sentiment, anyway?”.

“Around the same time you first had that stick lodged up your arse, Harry,” Pansy retorts with vim. “What’s your problem with me? You’ve been grimacing in my direction ever since I walked in.”

Harry sucks in a deep, angry breath. “You want to know what my problem is? Go back five years, Pansy – back to the day you were oh-so-willing to give me up to Voldemort without a second’s hesitation. And yet you’re waltzing around here now like that never happened – as if saving your own skin wasn’t more important than overthrowing a demonic terror,” he rasps furiously.

The room has fallen utterly silent; even Mac has ceased his diligent chomping as he soaks up the sudden melodrama with astounded eyes.

 _Oh, Harry. There’s more to this than meets the eye_ , Hermione sadly ponders.

Pansy unfreezes, precisely laying down her plate and wooden cutlery. She swivels elegantly off the desk, standing to face the angry man behind it. Her carefully blank eyes and rigid spine betray her turmoil.

“I apologize, Auror Potter. For both my reprehensible actions that day, and my oversight in not asking your pardon sooner. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch with your friends.” Pansy smiles tightly and manages to not look a single one of her ex-schoolmates in the eye as she glides toward the door, opening and closing it almost noiselessly.

Everyone remaining in the office stares at Harry with varying degrees of concern and accusation. Before any of them can speak, Harry fists at his hair and moans in self-directed frustration.

“I know - I’m an arsehole, alright? I’m sorry – I don’t know what came over me… just seeing her sitting there, baiting me… swinging her legs…” he growls anew.

“I have a fair idea what’s going on,” Theo murmurs, as Harry’s head whips around to glare at him.

“I’d best go after her; you really hurt her then, Harry,” Hermione begins to slide off Draco’s lap, but his arm hooking around her waist holds her in position.

“No you won’t, Granger – Potter is going to find her, and apologize profusely,” Draco sternly intones. “He will do whatever it takes to restore her equilibrium, and bring her back to his office. Go on, Harry – run along,” he urges.

To Hermione’s surprise, Harry hustles to the door without a word of objection, leaving it ajar in his haste.

“His Excellency Master Harry Potter speaks cruelly to the Perfectly Presented Mistress Pansy Parkinson,” Macdolas sorrowfully remarks. He looks longingly at Pansy’s half-finished plate, swiftly dropping his avaricious eyes as Draco frowns at him.

“Well, that escalated quickly, didn’t it?” Blaise jabs a chopstick in the air as he announces, “I’m running a betting pool: I’ll stump up fifty Galleons that those two will be rolling in the sack by the end of the Spring Equinox Ball. Any takers?”.

“Blaise!” Hermione’s squawk is drowned out as Draco and Theo simultaneously reply, “You’re on.”

“Excellent,” Blaise grins. “Care to nominate your preferred timelines?”

Hermione wrests herself free of Draco’s slackened hold to round on the juvenile men. “Forget it! No one is taking that bet, Blaise. I’m sure you’re way off base, anyway. Harry’s just under a lot of stress, that’s all.”

She grits her teeth as the Slytherins share the same pitying look at her opinion. “What?”.

Draco hesitantly expounds, “Granger… though you are the most intelligent and savvy person I’ve ever met… in this instance, you can’t see the Forbidden Forest for the Whumping Willows, _ma petite_. You could have started a fire with the heat coming off Potter and Pansy right now. Harry wasn’t irate because of historic misdeeds; he was riled up by Pansy’s proximity.”

 _Wait – really?_ Hermione’s comprehension of the tense situation shifts as each wizard nods in turn. She flops back down onto Draco’s lap as she struggles to process this astonishing new development. He affectionately kisses the side of her ear.

“I’d be extremely surprised if both of them don’t appear somewhat… rumpled when they come back,” Blaise asserts.

The final word goes to Macdolas, after he swallows his last mouthful of rich Chinese fare.

“Macdolas asks Master Malfoy if ‘rolling in the sack’ is the same as playing ‘hide the sausage’? And is ‘dancing the Paphian jig’ exactly the same as ‘making butter with one’s tail’? Macdolas has many questions requiring answers,” he earnestly pronounces.

With the exception of Draco, the humans burst into laughter in unison. Hermione laughs even harder as she hears Draco’s petulant response.

“Humping Hufflepuffs – is it Wednesday yet??”.


	2. Kiss

__

_Monday 17 March 2003: PM_

“Pansy – hold up!” Harry races down the narrow corridor, catching a transient glimpse of swinging sable hair before she disappears around a corner. He kicks up his galloping pace another gear, grateful that the rest of the Auror Division have apparently already left the floor to feed their faces at the Ministry cafeteria (and are therefore unable to witness his hurtling pursuit of the maddening brunette witch).

Harry slows his feet, attempting to school his features into an expression of amiable approachability as he impulsively turns down a dead-end spur leading to an ancient archives room. _Thank Godric._ Pansy has her elegant back to him, her posture uncharacteristically hunched as her hand stills on the dull brass handle of the unlocked door.

“Parkinson. Why didn’t you wait? You must have heard me calling you,” Harry quietly asks, coming close enough to note the fine tremor running through her shoulders.

“Could you leave me alone, please.” Pansy’s voice is husky and pitched just above a whisper. She fumbles at the door handle and manages to open it, slipping inside without turning to face him.

 _Oh, no – I’ve made her cry._ Harry hesitates at the half-open portal, wondering if he will do more harm than good if he continues to pursue the upset woman.

 _Screw it – I need her to know I regret my nasty, hasty outburst_. Entering the windowless space, Harry pulls out his wand and utters a soft ‘Lumos’: a thin beam of light streams from the tip.

He feels more than a stab of guilt at the sight before him. Pansy is leaning her back against a stack of haphazardly stacked old parchments and books, arms wrapped around her middle… sobbing noiselessly.

Lowering his wand, Harry clears his throat. “Pansy… please don’t cry. I’m sorry I spoke so harshly to you, in my office. I was out of line–”

“Can’t you just leave me alone? P-please,” she croaks. The dim light yet affords him a view of the distraught witch ineffectively swabbing at her wet cheeks with the backs of her hands.

“Here–” Harry retrieves a clean (albeit crumpled) white handkerchief from one of the many pockets of his scarlet Auror’s robes, waving it in front of Pansy’s face like a white flag of surrender. She doesn’t take it: Harry risks raising his right hand to carefully blot beneath her sad moldavite-green eyes himself.

“I feel like such a heel… making you cry,” he mutters, popping a muscle in his stubbled jawline as his fury turns inward. “It was badly done of me – would you please accept my apology?”.

Silence. Harry continues his gentle ministrations, transfixed when her lashes fully flutter open and her jasper-green gaze meets his. _Has she always been so pretty? So… enchanting?_ He dazedly stows the hankie back in his pocket.

“Only on the condition you accept mine,” Pansy husks. A slow smile dawns on her face like the coming of first spring. Acting purely on irresistible instinct, Harry doesn’t realize he is bending his head to skim his mouth across her sensuous lips until he makes first contact.

Shivers careen across his nerve endings, multiplying as Pansy meets his light pressure with her own, her tongue shyly darting to ravel with his before retreating. Harry’s wand clatters to the dusty floor as his hands find superior employment gliding over her curvy hips, his calloused palms snagging on the dense material of her dark navy dress.

Her nimble hands thread through his thick black hair, yanking and smoothing in equal measure; Harry glories at the sensation and slants his mouth more aggressively as their kiss intensifies in a matter of milliseconds. He crowds her into the tottery archived stack, uncaring when a thick sheaf careens off the top to land with a heavy thump.

“Pansy…” Harry’s fingertips brush against the underside of her ripe breasts as she tugs at the collar of his robes and slips a hand to the curve of his neck, nails scraping deliciously over his collarbone.

Later that night, Harry wonders wistfully how far they would have gone with their unscheduled (insanely flammable) clinch, had they not been startled by voices in the nearby corridor.

Breaking apart and breathing unevenly, Harry shakily adjusts his rounded spectacles, unable to look away from the beautiful sorceress before him.

He gathers his nerve to request, “Pansy… would you please accompany me back to my office? You can sit on my d-desk as long as you like.” He hopes she cannot see his blush as the unintentional innuendo echoes in his ears.

Chuckling softly, Pansy nods. “I’d like that.” Straightening, she hesitates before offering her hand to shake. “Friends?”.

“Friends,” Harry immediately agrees, briskly shaking her slim hand and dismissing his sudden clanging disappointment. _I’m tired, and stressed. Emotions all over the shop. Yeah._

Stooping to pick up his wand, he deactivates the light and gestures to the ajar door. “After you.”

Walking back side-by-side in sedate silence, Harry tells himself he leaves his hand resting ever-so-lightly on Pansy’s hip because he is naturally solicitous… just in case she stumbles in those spiky high heels.

Friends take care of each other, after all.


	3. Deflect

_Monday 17 March 2003: PM_

“OK, Pansy – spill,” Hermione smiles at Mac before she firmly closes the door to her temporary office; her diminutive elvish bodyguard is standing stoically in position in the hallway, looking surprisingly alert considering how hard his digestive system must be working after their long lunch with Harry. She shakes her head indulgently as she remembers Mac managing to sneak past Draco long enough to appropriate Pansy’s abandoned plate, after all.

“Spill what? If you’re looking for gossip on what happened when Potter caught up to me – there’s nothing to tell,” Pansy sniffs, conveniently burying her nose in the redolent purplish lilies sitting on Hermione’s desk.

“Really? Your smeared lipstick tells a different story,” Hermione chides, laughing as Pansy immediately raises her head like a startled fawn.

“What? No– it’s colour-stay!” Pansy hurries to stand in front of the shabby little mirror. She ceases fussing at her immaculate maquillage as she realizes she’s been had. “Ha ha, very funny.” Pansy folds her arms and releases a world-weary sigh.

“Nothing happened: Harry kissed me as part of his apology, that’s all.” Her dazzling viridian green eyes still refuse to meet Hermione’s acute regard.

“Huh. Harry’s dishevelled hair and robes hinted at something else entirely, Pansy.” _Goodness gracious… is Pansy actually blushing?_ Hermione marvels at the unexpected vision.

“Potter’s general slovenliness has nothing to do with me,” Pansy haughtily asserts. “I mean – what’s going on with his hairstyle, anyway? Does he cut it himself with a bowl and a pair of nail scissors? He’s a primary representative of the Ministry and he should look and dress the part – not slob about like a… like a…” she trails off as Hermione clucks her tongue pityingly.

“’The lady doth protest too much, methinks’… Come on, Pansy, your secret’s safe with me,” Hermione soothes. “We’re friends now, aren’t we? I promise not to breathe a word to Draco… though the boys were the ones who had to remove my blinkers, after the fraught sexually-charged performance you and Harry acted out in his office,” Hermione admits.

“Fuckity fuck fuck _FUCK_ ,” Pansy snarls. “I loathe being the subject of spurious gossip! It’s none of their bloody business! That fathead Blaise teed off on me, didn’t he?” she demands.

Hermione hurries to assuage Pansy’s aggravation. “No, they weren’t disrespectful, Pansy. Well, Blaise did want to start a betting pool – never mind,” she glosses over Zabini’s roguish proposition. “We were all worried about you, and when Draco ordered Harry to go after you and grovel until you returned, Harry practically flew out the door in pursuit,” she explains.

“He– he did?” Pansy breathes, looking oddly young and uncertain. She swiftly regains her composure, lifting an elegant shoulder to shrug, “Potter’s cursed with an overactive conscience, that’s all. He probably rescues flies trapped between sliding window panes. Bleeding Heart Syndrome up the wazoo,” she mutters.

Moving cautiously, Hermione gathers the stiff Slytherin woman in a quick hug. “You looked like you needed that,” she justifies her embrace. “I’m sorry for what Harry said to you; it was most unlike him to be unkind.”

“He only spoke the truth. I _was_ willing to sacrifice him – or I thought I was,” Pansy glumly whispers, her pristine posture slumping as she leans against the desk. “Do you ever wish you could meet your teenage self and just shake some much-needed sense into her? I thought I’d made peace with that crass version of me… I guess it remains a bit raw.”

“Oh, I still cringe thinking about how insufferably righteous I was,” Hermione confesses. “No wonder I had a reputation for being an obnoxious little prig. I didn’t mean to come across like that… I was defensive about my heritage, and utterly hell-bent on proving my right to be a witch,” she sighs.

“But we’re talking about you… and Harry,” she steers the conversation back on track. “Pansy – do you have feelings for him?” she asks softly.

As expected, Pansy instantly scoffs. “I’ve a yen to jump his bones, if that’s what you mean,” she quibbles. “Though I couldn’t tell you why – he’s such a… a….”

“It’s interesting how you’re having trouble choosing the right descriptor,” Hermione dryly notes. “Could it be because you haven’t admitted to yourself that your attraction runs deeper than lust?”.

“Oof – look at you, chatting so freely about the baser human conditions,” Pansy is quick to retort. “Draco’s been a terrible influence on the Good Golden Girl!”.

“Or a brilliant one, depending on your point of view,” Hermione rebuts. “Don’t deflect, please: I am genuinely concerned for you, and I want to help… as your friend.” She furtively crosses her fingers behind her back, hoping Pansy doesn’t react negatively to the tentative olive branch.

The silence expands, finally broken by Pansy stepping away from the desk to give a flabbergasted Hermione a proper, tight hug. “You’re a real sweetheart, Hermione. Thank you.”

 _Is Pansy… sniffling?_ Hermione wills her expression to remain amiable and not alarmed at the unexpected display of emotion from her fierce new friend.

Drawing back, Pansy reveals, “I’ve crafted a new persona for myself out of the ashes of the old one – and I’m happy with who I am now – but every now and then, I get lonely… My family disowned me, you know. I don’t miss _them_ per se, but I miss knowing that there are people in the world who care about me, people who would drop everything if I asked them for help, you know?’.

“Oh, I detest myself for being soppy like this! I think that’s why I come on too strong with Potter – it’s a defence mechanism. I’ll try to tone it down, I know he’s sensitive and unused to my barbs and stings,” she mutters.

Patting Pansy’s taut shoulder consolingly, Hermione hums her empathy.

“Luna’s been wonderful, but I don’t get to spend time with her often… and when Har– Potter called me out in front of you guys, I was zapped straight back to that awful day, and being marched to the dungeons in disgrace…” Her velvet green eyes are dulled with the memories of shame and regret.

“I understand, Pansy. Especially about missing having a family to support you: but please know, we’re your family now. Me, Draco, Luna, Theo – even Blaise, though he is a terrible ruffian,” Hermione nudges her hip against Pansy’s, relieved to see the raven-haired witch sporting a faint smile.

“And maybe you’re not ready to hear this – but Harry cares about you, too. He was simply wild with himself when he realized how badly he’d hurt you. And you’re right: maybe you should dial back your aggressive flirting a little; while I admire and respect your forthrightness, Harry is unaccustomed to that level of… pugnacity. I’ve known him for over half my life, so I am somewhat of an authority on the man, alright?”.

Determining that Pansy may have reached her limit of deep and meaningful discourse for one day, Hermione makes one final statement. “Pansy, whatever happens between you and Harry is entirely your business, but I want you to know that as your friend, I am here to talk about it, vent, cry, offer (probably inept) advice – anything you need. And I won’t be playing favourites, either. OK?”.

Smoothing her palms down the fitted skirt of her gorgeous indigo fit-and-flare dress, Pansy nods her acceptance and smiles candidly.

 _Gosh, Harry is a goner if Pansy turns that guileless countenance on him,_ Hermione thinks with an inner chuckle.

“So… is there any chance I could ask you to buy and deliver a nightgown to me by this evening, please? High-necked, lots of buttons, semi-transparent white cotton? Regency-style?” Hermione changes the subject and adopts a supremely casual air while making the clothing request.

The last vestiges of Pansy’s melancholy dissipate as she tips back her stylish head and laughs throatily. “Isn’t that interesting? Draco sidled up to me when I returned to lunch and quietly asked about purchasing an eighteenth century men’s silk banyan,” she muses, tapping her manicured nails against her ruby-lipsticked mouth in a pretension of bemused contemplation.

“I wonder what games the two of you are planning for tonight’s entertainment, hmmm?” she continues teasing, as Hermione’s face flames crimson.

“Can you get the nightie or not, please,” Hermione maunders, now wishing that Mac were free to go shopping for her instead.

Pansy squeezes her arm affectionately. “Of course I can, Little Miss Role-Play. It will be waiting for you when you get back to the townhouse. Provided you answer one teensy question for me…” she baits.

“Is this scenario you’re planning going to be mostly improvised, or will you be working off a set script of some sort?” Pansy’s query succeeds in Hermione’s blood rush deepening.

“I’m going to write a short script in my afternoon tea break,” Hermione reluctantly acknowledges. “Why is that so funny?” she asks aggrievedly.

“You two are such dorks,” Pansy guffaws, as she heads for the door. “Good luck, Pollyanna. I might send a couple of gowns – Draco might wish to rip the first one clean off you,” she smirks.

Before she departs, Pansy turns to say, “Hey, Hermione? Thanks. I’m glad you’re my friend.”

“Yeah – me too. Talk to you soon, Pansy,” Hermione smiles and waves goodbye.

* * *

“Why are you pricks still here, circling me like bloody sharks?” Potter grumbles, scratching at his scalp like a dog with fleas.

Draco puffs out a frustrated breath. “Because someone needs to give you some tips on the best way to handle Ms Pansy Parkinson – watching you ineptly lurching around her is painful and maddening, alright? Plus, we need to further discuss Operation Acromantula,” he reminds the cranky Auror.

“I told you everything we know when the girls were still here,” Potter objects, rocking back on his shabby office chair until it creaks in protest.

“Don’t call them girls – they’re women,” Theo corrects, steepling his lean fingers beneath his chin.

Blaise barrels in. “Stow the semantics, Harry meant it as a term of affection, right mate? I reckon we should revisit that idea you had about taking Polyjuice Potion to impersonate Granger and ‘staking a goat’ at the Ball, so to speak,” he prompts.

Everyone looks at Draco: he had vociferously supported Hermione’s indignant refusal to countenance the proposition.

“No way – _no way_ am I going to go behind Hermione’s back on this. Just the thought of Potter looking and dressing as Granger makes me physically ill,” he carps. “I don’t need that in my head – ever.’

“And she’s right, you don’t have any proof that this sicko is planning something on the night of the Gala, anyway. It’s being held in the heart of the Ministry, for goodness sake! He’d be mad to try it on then,” Draco avers.

Harry rebuts, “Flint attempted to snatch her on her way back from the Courtrooms, Malfoy – I think we can correctly assume these bastards are recklessly overconfident, and use that knowledge in our favour.”

“I won’t keep secrets from my belov– from Granger,” Draco sticks to his guns and wills away his blush at the abbreviated endearment. “Forget that harebrained scheme, Hermione would have all our guts for garters if we tried it. More importantly, we all discussed your list of suspects – and it could be any of them, or someone we’ve glossed over entirely,” he frowns. “Also, it might be someone from an earlier, or later generation. You need to broaden your search parameters.”

Harry sighs as he meets the unimpressed stares of the Slytherin Trio. “Anything else you want to talk about?”.

“Pansy. What are your intentions toward her?” Draco gruffly challenges, deliberately replicating Potter’s prior question to him during their first meeting in Interrogation Room Two. “You need to realize – Pansy presents a tough front, but her hard outer shell has been developed to protect her oft-wounded heart. I won’t allow you to toy with her affections, Potter. If you intend to woo her, come chat with me about the best approach beforehand, do you hear?”.

Theo and Blaise snicker as Harry shakes his head, projecting discomfort and discombobulation. “Your interfering counsel is superfluous, Malfoy! We just had a little spat. I already told you – I apologized for lashing out at her. The case has me on edge… we sorted our differences, and agreed to keep our interactions harmonious for the sake of the group,” he blathers.

“How lovely – but you did not answer my original query.” Draco is merciless. Witnessing Potter squirm in his ugly chair is both satisfying and amusing. _It’s nice to not be the man currently being razzed for refusing to acknowledge his true sentiments, too._

“Just because you’re bobbing along happily in the Sea of Love with my best friend – it doesn’t mean the rest of us are itching to follow suit, you know. Pansy and I are – friends. Well, we will be. Friendly. We are, I mean.” Harry grabs the page of parchment nearest him and holds it in front of his scarlet face. “You can all leave now – I’ve got important research to begin.”

“Have you asked Pansy to be your date for Saturday night?” Theo enquires.

“No – I’m going with Ron, anyway,” Harry divulges. He returns the sheaf of vellum to its stack and drums his agile fingers on the desktop with weary resignation as he awaits their ribbing.

“Good for you, Potter. You won’t be the only same-sex couple in attendance: but you’ll definitely garner the most attention,” Blaise nods approvingly.

“Before you throw shade in my direction, know that Pansy and Luna are accompanying each other, too,” Harry warns. “Piss off already, you lot! You invite yourselves in here, mooch my Chinese banquet, and offer unsolicited and UNECESSARY relationship advice – get going before you really test my patience,” he grouses.

“You’re welcome,” Draco rises; with a wink to his schoolmates, they all perform low bows and cackle, jostling each other as they depart the crabby Gryffindor’s non-descript office.

Blaise gets in the last (cheeky) word before the wizardly trio go their separate ways.

“Do you reckon Potter and Weasley will gift each other matching corsages?”.


	4. Swoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys: if anyone has any ideas for a better title (now that I've added complementary material from my other WiP to flesh out Harry and Pansy's story), I'd love to hear them. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope the adaptations and continuation make sense. 
> 
> xoxo VJ

_Thursday 20 March 2003: AM_

**Rap-tap-tap.**

“Come in,” Harry bids, automatically rising from his ramshackle old chair to greet his visitor. A wave of dizziness causes him to blindly grab at his desk, accidentally dislodging a slew of carefully arranged files.

“Fuck!” Harry snarls as he barely manages to stop the whole pile from tumbling to the carpeted floor of his poky office. He boxes them back into a steady stack as light footsteps approach from the doorway.

“Quite the blue tongue on you, Auror Potter,” Pansy Parkinson’s coolly amused voice remarks. “Here I thought you were such a good boy, too…” she teases.

Hoping his sharp bout of vertigo has now passed, Harry turns to face the brunette witch. He attributes his quickened heartbeat to some residual wooziness. Nothing to do with the stunning picture Ms Parkinson presents as she leans against the front of his scarred old desk.

“Good morning, Pansy.” Harry hopes the smile wreathing across his tired face doesn’t look as stupidly eager as it feels. “How– how are you? Have you been good– I mean, are you well? You look well,” he blabbers.

It is the truth: as usual, Pansy is dressed to the nines. Her slate-grey tailored pants suit and emerald satin blouse (which perfectly matches her eyes) and two inch stiletto heels with their dainty ankle straps are professional, pretty… and unbelievably sexy. Harry fiddles with the top file on the endangered stack and wills his thoughts to quit rambling in unwanted directions.

“I’m well; though many would attest to my inability to be good,” Pansy chuckles. She leans a little closer, peering into his eyes as her mirth dies away. “Harry… you don’t look quite the thing… are you ill?”.

 _She smells like strawberries. Ripe, sweet, little red berries… and a hint of mint_ … Harry wonders, as the room spins oddly. _Must have stood up too quickly… floor’s a tad unsteady, too…_

“Harry? _Harry!_ ”

He has a moment of bemusement as Pansy’s slim hands grapple at his waist, the contact burning even through the layers of red Auror’s robes and trousers…

 _Darkness_.

***************************************

The soothing sensation of gentle fingers rhythmically burrowing and raking through his hair and scalp is positively rapturous. Harry makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a purr as his eyes slowly open. Much to his regret, the fingers abruptly cease their caress.

“Harry, you goose – when did you last eat something? Or get more than an hour’s snatched sleep?” Pansy’s voice is soft and worried, despite her scolding words. Her mint and berry scent is stronger, enveloping. Harry struggles to make sense of his surroundings, his jade eyes flicking side-to-side. He can clearly see Pansy’s beautiful face looming over him, but the rest of the room is a jumbled blur.

“You’re OK: you fainted, but I caught you before you could brain yourself on your muddled pigsty of a desk,” Pansy informs. Her hand tentatively recommences combing through his thick dark locks as she adds, “I was going to call for help, but your breathing and colour quickly returned to normal. I diagnosed sleep deprivation and stupidly working yourself into the ground, and let you rest for a while.”

 _I’m lying down… my head’s currently resting in Pansy’s lap._ Harry squinches his eyes closed, swamped by feelings of humiliation… and longing. _No one’s touched me this intimately in an age,_ he wistfully reflects. _Guess I am the ‘sad old dude’ Pansy recently accused me of being_. He sighs, bunching his sore muscles in an attempt to extricate himself from his current position (hopefully, with some bare modicum of grace… dignity has already jumped out the window, it would seem).

Pansy presses her left hand against his chest, halting Harry’s awkward movement. “Take a little longer; I’ve nowhere else I need to be just yet,” she diffidently states. A small pause elapses before she hesitantly adds, “Your hair… it’s softer than I thought it would be.” She leaves her warm palm resting atop his torso for a few precious seconds, before elegantly lifting and twirling the shapely appendage.

Harry lifts his head, squinting through his eyelashes as Pansy Accio’s the water glass from his desktop.

“Have some water, please.” Pansy supports its base as he carefully imbibes half the tumbler in small, measured sips. It flies back to the table with another swift flick of Pansy’s wrist. She stays silent as Harry closes his eyes and succumbs to the not-so-small joy of her comforting touch on his hair and his heart.

“Thanks, Pansy,” he mumbles, raising his right hand to cautiously cover her smaller one and lightly squeezing in a gesture of gratitude. “Sorry to be a pain.”

A lone strand of glossy sable hair unwinds from behind her ear and tickles his cheek, before Pansy regathers the tress. “No need to apologize, Harry Potter. I know how hard you’re working to solve this dreadful case… I can plainly see how much it’s weighing on you. You’re a truehearted friend… Hermione and Draco are lucky to have you in their corner.”

Hearing her unexpected praise makes Harry gulp; he swiftly pretends a cough, to cover the revealing sound. He chances asking a personal question, focusing his nearsighted eyes as best he can. _Hope my glasses didn’t break when I… passed out._

“Pansy… does it bother you? Draco and Hermione… being so obviously committed… in love?” Harry holds his breath, already regretting the impulsive query.

To his utter relief, Pansy tips back her head to chortle, drawing his intense green gaze to the alluring lines of her pale throat. “Worried I’m still holding a candle for that blond ferret? Ha! I blew out that flame yonks ago, Harry,” she assures. “Besides, Draco stamped himself ‘Property of Hermione Granger’ from the moment he first clapped his grey eyes on her, I’ll warrant. I’m happy for him – for both of them.”

“Yeah… me too,” Harry is surprised at his own sincerity. “Never thought I’d say this… but Malfoy and Hermione are a great match – a true match. There’s a… a special quality about them, you know? Like…”

“Magic?” Pansy winks. “I’m kidding… I feel it, too. Like we’re in the presence of something… fated. Mystical. Pfft, listen to me waffling on like a daft, doe-eyed teenager,” she scoffs.

Harry smiles guilelessly. “I could listen to you waffle all day, Pansy.” He delights in her rising blush.

“Morgana’s bum – you’d give Draco a run for his slick money, saying things like that,” Pansy announces, in a low grumble. “I take it you’re feeling better?” she prompts.

 _I guess that’s my cue to stop nuzzling my head into her stroking fingers like a needy tabby,_ Harry regretfully decides. “Uh, yeah… I should get up. Have you seen my glasses, Pansy?” he begins to prop himself up on his elbows.

“I rescued them when you toppled: hold still, Harry,” Pansy plucks the round spectacles from her jacket pocket, using both hands to scrupulously hook the metal arms behind Harry’s sensitive ears. He subdues a shiver of quiet pleasure at her delicate touch.

“There you go – you’re all set to save the world again, Auror Potter. Oh, wait – one more thing–” Pansy pulls out a small bag of Honeydukes Chocoballs, popping one in Harry’s parted mouth before he can protest.

“Chew well, and swallow,” the raven-haired witch instructs, her fern green eyes glinting with good-natured humour. “And eat regular meals, Harry; I might not be around to save you, the next time you faint.” She shoves the bag of strawberry-and-cream mousse-filled chocolates into his hands.

“I didn’t ‘faint’ – I may have momentarily lost consciousness,” Harry objects, sitting up so that he is mere inches away from Pansy’s lithe form. He already misses the sublime feel of her fingers trailing through his messy mop… and the heat of her body.

“You _swooned_ , Harry,” Pansy snickers. “No need to be ashamed – we’re friends. I shan’t tell more than half a dozen of our cronies about your unfortunate little episode,” she razzes.

Harry cringes at the thought of Blaise and Draco needling him… or worse, Hermione’s inexorably sorrowful rebuke at not taking proper care of himself.

“Listen, Pansy – I’d appreciate you keeping this to yourself, please,” he tries for a casual approach to asking his small boon. “Wouldn’t like to worry Hermione – she has enough on her plate.”

“Here’s the thing, Harry… my Slytherin pride demands a favour for a favour,” Pansy maintains. “What’s in it for me?” she winks impertinently.

“A hug?” Harry slowly scrambles to his feet, using the nearby desk for support. He is thankful his balance seems restored and reliable. Holding out his hands, he helps Pansy to also stand.

“Isn’t a hug more beneficial to you than me, Potter?” Pansy’s easy cheer has faded, much to Harry’s chagrin. She looks almost… nervous.

 _Damn: I’ve overstepped._ Harry begins to lower his arms, his own face losing its light-hearted demeanour.

“You’re right… Sorry – I didn’t mean–” his dejected apology is knocked aside as Pansy suddenly jumps fiercely into his embrace.

“Shut up and hug me, Harry – quick, before I think better of it,” Pansy whispers into his ear, before she nestles flush against him, her face tucked into his shoulder.

Harry rapidly obeys, intoxicated by her warmth and sweet, fruity fragrance… entranced by the hourglass curves of her shoulders, ribs, and waist as he gingerly sweeps his calloused hands up and down her back. He discovers that Pansy is trembling slightly… as is he.

She is the first to draw away, keeping her face averted. Harry lets his hands fall to his sides, aware that his breathing is now pathetically berserk, as a direct reaction to their fleeting clinch. He surreptitiously checks he is not obviously ‘standing at attention’. _Thank Merlin for thick uniform robes._

“I’d better go– meeting Hermione for lunch– sorting out details for the Gala– better go,” Pansy sounds as discombobulated as Harry feels. He dredges up his infamous Gryffindor courage before she bolts out the door.

“Pansy. At the Ball tomorrow night – I’m going to claim a dance with you. A long one,” Harry stresses.

She blinks slowly. “You… you are?”

“Yes. Oh, one more thing…” Harry steps forward, holding her chin in place with the tip of his forefinger as he drops a gossamer kiss on her pretty pink mouth. _She tastes like Chocoballs, too. And luscious, sensuous woman._

“Say hi to Hermione for me, please.” Harry revels in Pansy’s flustered mien… and the way she unconsciously licks at her lips when he breaks their gentle kiss.

Pansy gives an infinitesimal nod before slipping out the door.

Whistling quietly, Harry pops a couple of Chocoballs into his mouth, chewing with relish. Any lingering traces of fatigue and unsteadiness have vanished, leaving him feeling decidedly buoyant… and jubilantly resolved.

_I am going to be the best friend you ever had, Pansy Parkinson._

_The very best._


	5. Scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Pansy are attending the Ministry of Magic's Spring Equinox Gala, sitting at a large table with Draco, Hermione, Luna, Ron, Viktor, and Ginny. I will flesh out the story and provide more of a connection between the chapters once my parent WiP is complete. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading.

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

Harry wishes (for the hundredth time) that some fool hadn’t swapped around the place cards before he sat down. Maybe then he wouldn’t be bloody tormented by the delicate scent of strawberries and mint that wafts his way every time Pansy Parkinson turns her beautiful head.

 _I bet Malfoy meddled with the damn things – look at him, alternately frowning at Ron and Krum every time either of them so much as glance in Hermione’s direction. He’s utterly besotted with her. How did I not guess how he felt about her at Hogwarts? Slippery Snakes… it’s a good thing I can plainly see how much he loves my best friend. Mind you, Hermione can’t take her eyes off the blond git, either. And they must believe we’re all blind to their incessant, sneaky touches…_ fondlings _, really. Hopeless, the pair of them._

Feeling smug about his singlehood for once, Harry relaxes his tight grip on his cutlery and reaches for his linen napkin… only to gasp involuntarily as his hand inadvertently brushes Pansy’s on the table, sending sparks along his skin.

“Oh – my bad, I didn’t mean…” Pansy withdraws her hand as though he’d set it afire.

“Not your fault, I wasn’t looking…” Harry is quick to beg pardon, unable to resist another peek at Pansy’s stunning smaragdine eyes. She stares intently back at him for a heartbeat, before dropping her eyes to her lap in an atypically shy gesture. Harry’s pulse careens as his eyes hungrily trace the sparkling cluster of crystals embellishing the narrow single strap and… decolletage of Pansy’s magnificent iris purple ballgown.

“Sorry,” they say together, as Hermione snickers on Harry’s left.

“Hey, Harry. _Psst_. Harry!” Steadfastly refusing to turn in Hermione’s direction, Harry finally gives in when she tugs urgently on his sleeve.

“What is it, Hermione?” Harry grumbles. “If you’re intending to take me to task about crashing your table – can it wait until tomorrow? I’ve already explained my decision.”

“When are you going to ask Pansy to dance? She’s really looking forward to it,” Hermione smugly announces, in a voice that is far too loud for Harry’s liking.

“Shhh! Hold on – what? Did Pansy tell you that? What did she say, exactly?” Harry drops his napkin in his haste to scooch a bit closer to his informant; he knocks his knee into Hermione’s as they both bend to collect the white square at the same time.

Draco beats them both to the punch, lazily floating the napkin upward with a quick ‘Wingardium Leviosa’ spell. He tucks his wand back up his sleeve as Harry disgruntledly snatches back the linen.

“Never difficult to remember you two were Muggle-raised,” Malfoy chuckles. “Use your magic, Gryffies.”

“Never mind Draco, Harry – the first morning in the townhouse, he washed the dirty dishes by hand,” Hermione divulges. “In retrospect, I think he was trying to impress me,” she naughtily pokes out her tongue at her boyfriend. 

“It worked, didn’t it?” Draco looks disgustingly pleased with himself. Harry waves impatiently.

“Forget your flagrant flirting for a moment: what did you mean, Hermione? About… about the dance?” Harry asks, sotto voice. A sidelong glance confirms that Pansy is conversing with Viktor… _maybe she likes the strong, accented type? Dammit._

“Pansy’s not interested in Viktor – she’s only blushing over you tonight, Harry.” As usual, Hermione’s astute eyes miss nothing at the table. “And without breaking Pansy’s confidences: I can tell you that she is keenly anticipating being held in your arms this evening… dancing, I mean,” she winks wickedly.

“Malfoy’s had a shocking influence on you, Hermione,” Harry carps, his cheeks heating at Hermione’s innuendo. “Please stop matchmaking – we’re friends. And besides, I’m working tonight,” he emphasizes.

“Gilmont and Faulkner can hold down the fort for one measly dance, can’t they?” Hermione wheedles. “Friends who cuddle one another, huh? I know what happened in your office yesterday, Harry… there’s no use denying that you want to be a lot more to Pansy Parkinson than her friend, _amigo_.”

Startled, Harry’s verdant eyes search Hermione’s complacent face; he relaxes as he realizes she’s fishing for information. _Anyway, if Pansy **had** told her I’d… momentarily lost consciousness, Hermione would’ve been fussing over me like a mother hen immediately._

“Nice try, love… but you forget I know your tells. Your nostrils are flaring just the teeniest little bit: it’s a sure sign you’re lying,” Harry cackles at her affronted expression. “Better ask your Slytherin sweetheart for some more Occlumency tips.”

“Well, I know _something_ happened… and if you don’t whirl Pansy around the dance floor before the night is over, I’ll hit you with a ‘Tarantallegra’ spell myself,” Hermione references the Dancing jinx spell that Malfoy once used against him in the Duelling Club.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Harry breathes, mostly certain his best friend is joking.

Hermione merely rolls her eyes in Pansy’s direction before cuddling up to Draco again, preening like a cat as Malfoy strokes her shoulder with one pale hand. 

Looking around the table in a desperate attempt to avoid witnessing yet another manifestation of Horny Young Love, Harry is surprised to see Ron glaring suspiciously… _at me? No… at Pansy? Both of us? What’s gotten his goat? He said he was OK with sitting at the same table as Hermione and Draco._

Smiling tentatively, Harry is shocked when Ron’s scowl deepens; the redhead drops his glower to his empty plate and hunches pensively into his chair.

 _Moody bugger_ , Harry thinks, vexed by Ron’s wet blanket demeanour. He immediately feels ashamed of his censorious judgement. _Can’t be easy… seeing Hermione fall head over heels for a bloke who used to be our sworn enemy – well, adversary, I suppose. Mind you, I’m not sitting here fretting over Ginny’s obvious flirtation with Krum, am I?_

 _Should I be, though?_ Harry examines his reactions to watching his ex-girlfriend sparking with the big Bulgarian, striving for as much critical detachment as he can muster.

 _I really have moved on_ , he concludes, with no small wonderment. _Even a few months ago, the sight of Ginny fluttering her pretty eyelashes at another bloke would have flooded me with jealous resentment, but now… I wish her well. She deserves to be happy._

Buoyed by the realization, Harry turns to Pansy, before he can change his mind. He leans in to speak softly into the pink shell of her ear.

“Pansy… remember how I said I wanted to dance with you, tonight? The first slow dance – it’s mine,” Harry cockily proclaims. He surreptitiously inhales her entrancing fruity scent. _Merlin, I’ve become a creeper… Must. Not. Sniff._

“Oh!” Pansy shivers a little, but keeps her brunette head in place; Harry has to stop himself from succumbing to the impulse to nip her tender ear lobe. “Um… OK. That– that sounds nice. Good, I mean.” Her nerves bolster Harry’s confidence.

“Excellent. I can’t wait,” Harry asserts. Pulling back, he gently tucks a stray, silky black wisp behind the ear he still longs to nibble. “You look incredibly beautiful tonight, Pansy. Like an old-time movie star.” He catches her eyes with his, close enough to see his own green orbs reflected in them. Her pupils are expanded as she silently returns his regard.

The tips of their pinkie fingers touch in the faintest of caresses, as they simultaneously break eye contact and turn to the dining companions on their other side. Harry keeps his digit in place, excitement whistling through his veins, reminding him of the thrill he always gets from flying his broom.

_Hurry up and serve the other courses already – I’m aching to hold this gorgeous, sexy witch as close to me in public as propriety allows._

His anticipatory grin fades a little as considers his (at best) mediocre dancing abilities.

_Bollocks._


	6. Admit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is first of Pansy's P.O.V.s at the Gala.

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

Pansy steels herself for an unavoidably unpleasant conversation. _I need to tell Hermione, before she hears it from the horse’s mouth… more like the horse’s arse, in Ron Weasley’s case. And then… I guess I should tell Harry. Fuck._

“Has something happened, Pansy? You look… troubled,” Harry whispers, concern evident in his tenor tones. He reaches for her hand, flipping it palm-up on the table to delicately stroke the afferent skin; Pansy quivers like a tuning fork in instant response.

With an effort, she slips from his grasp as she stands up. “We got into a stoush with Astoria Greengrass – but Hermione annihilated her. Mentally, not physically, don’t fret,” Pansy assures, as Harry’s eyes round behind his glasses. “It’s fine– I’m fine, I mean. Just have to talk with Hermione for a moment. Please excuse me,” she mumbles.

“Hermione? May I have a word with you, please?” Pansy quietly requests. “Don’t look so peeved, Draco – I’ll return her to you within five minutes, you big possessive baby.”

Draco reluctantly stops forking bites of tiramisu into Hermione’s mouth, waiting for his girlfriend to swallow the last morsel before kissing her passionately. Hermione blinks dazedly as he finally pulls away, using his thumb to wipe a droplet of mascarpone cream from the corner of her mouth, before transferring it to his own. “Delicious,” he smugly proclaims.

 _Fuck’s sake._ Pansy grabs Hermione as she sways back in Draco’s direction. “You guys are really pushing the envelope tonight – come on, Pollyanna. He’s not going anywhere,” Pansy steers them to a quieter spot to the far side of the podium, ensuring Hermione’s back is to their table.

“Hello? Hello? Are you still in there, Hermione? Do I need to slap you out of it?” Pansy peers into Hermione’s logy chocolate eyes as she mocks her friend’s love-struck demeanour.

“Hey! No slapping!” Hermione sucks in a cleansing breath, shaking her head as if to clear it. Noting Pansy’s disparagingly hiked eyebrow, she argues, “He’s my soulmate, OK? Now, what’s up?”.

“I have to tell you why Ron Weasley has been glaring at us… well, at me, I suppose… all night. And before I do, I just want to say that I never thought this would be an issue– it meant absolutely nothing, and we weren’t even friendly then– you and I, I mean– ”

“You slept with Ron, didn’t you,” Hermione carefully states, as Pansy wheezes in shock. “Pansy, Draco already guessed that might be the case. I won’t say I’m not… erm, surprised, but I’m not bothered by it. Truly. Whatever went on with you and Ron – did it happen after I broke up with him? Or… when we were still together? I’m sorry to pry – I suppose it doesn’t really matter, what’s done is done– ”

“March 1st – I stumbled across Ron – literally – in the lower field at the Lovegoods’ place, in Ottery St Catchpole,” Pansy blurts. “He was nude, it was dark… I was a feeling a bit horny, and I wanted to teach him a lesson about using witches for casual sex… so I took him home and basically used him as a walking, talking vibrator.”

Pressing at her temples, Pansy avoids looking at her new friend as she clarifies, “I called him ‘Big Red’, I didn’t let him kiss me – hell, I made it perfectly clear that he was not to do anything without my express permission… and once I came, I rolled away and went to bed – alone. I didn’t _sleep_ with Ron – I had completely casual sex with him, once. He spent the rest of the night on my couch and Apparated home in the morning. He was a bit too drunk to do so the night before – but I made sure he was sober enough to give consent, I made absolutely certain of that,” Pansy underlines, loathing the thought that Hermione might think her capable of taking advantage.

Concluding her awkward confession, Pansy tells Hermione, “I don’t regret it – we were both single, willing adults. I scratched an itch and used the experience as an object lesson in forced empathy. The only lament I have is that I sent him home wearing my best cashmere throw rug – which he never saw fit to return, I might add.” She folds her arms, annoyed anew by the sheer lack of basic manners on Ron’s part.

Hermione tips back her chestnut head to guffaw loudly; Pansy stares at her in astonishment… and no small relief.

“You’re not… angry? If I’d known you were going to become one of my best friends, I wouldn’t have touched Ron with a sterilized barge pole,” Pansy vigorously avouches. “And if I’d known…” _No. Don’t say it – you’ll jinx things, for sure. You always do_ , she reminds herself.

“… If you’d known that Harry was going to fall head over heels for you?” Hermione shrewdly finishes. Pansy flushes, negating the outrageous statement with a swift jerk of her chin.

“Look, I can’t promise that Harry won’t be somewhat… taken aback; but he isn’t a prig. And you’ve nothing to regret or be ashamed about, of course,” she emphasizes.

Astoria’s vile jeers float back into Pansy’s head without her conscious volition. “You don’t – you don’t think I’m a… slut?”. She winces at the word she’s spent years trying to outrun… _trying to forget_.

“Don’t you dare let Astoria get to you!” Hermione fiercely hisses, gripping Pansy by her bare shoulders as though she intends to shake some sense into her. “She knew exactly which of our buttons to press for maximum damage, didn’t she?! You are most definitely _not_ a slut – hell, Pansy, I wish I were more like you – you’re a goddamn queen, and a boss, and a role model for witches everywhere! That rotten little beast – I should have tied her scurrilous tongue in a knot…” Hermione trails off, actually growling now.

“Easy, Pollyanna,” Pansy snickers, her fear of rejection and criticism greatly alleviated. “I thought I should tell you about Ron before he blabs it in front of the whole table – I don’t know him well enough to judge his level of discretion.”

“His impulse control is traditionally rather poor,” Hermione sighs. “Thanks, Pansy. You’re a dear friend – and thank you so much for all your help with tonight. I’d have been quite lost without you, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pansy regains some of her usual brassy bluster. “Honestly, I’m surprised Draco didn’t take one look at you and immediately whisk you back upstairs for the rest of the evening! Please, can you two piss off already and work off your boiling lust? It’s driving the rest of the table crazy,” she groans.

Hooking their elbows together, Hermione grins impishly. “Once the speeches are over, I fully intend on having my wicked way with Draco in the privacy of my office; can you do me a favour by convincing Harry that we don’t need anyone following us up there? Please?” she coaxes.

“Yeah, yeah – I’ll do what I can… on the proviso you quit bullying Harry into asking me to dance, Golden Girl,” Pansy grouches. “I don’t want an unwilling partner… in anything.”

“Ha! Harry can’t keep his eyes – or his hands off you, Pansy. I’m just helping to speed up the process a tad,” Hermione’s eyes twinkle.

They are back at the table; Draco immediately scoops Hermione into his lap. Harry stands, solicitously pulling out Pansy’s chair.

“About bloody time,” Draco carps. “And Potter tells me that Astoria Greengrass had the absolute temerity to provoke you in the bathroom? What happened – and I’ll hear the full particulars of it, nothing less,” he autocratically demands.

“We bested her, Malfoy – don’t fash yourself about it,” Hermione placates, raking her fingers through Draco’s flaxen hair.

“I must insist, Granger,” he pompously maintains, while Pansy and Harry roll their eyes in unison.

Pansy decides to spill the beans herself, pithily describing the malevolent insults Astoria bandied about, and Hermione’s kick-arse response.

“And when we departed, Astoria was still crying on Daphne’s shoulder,” she exultantly describes. “She’ll think twice before she comes for our crew ever again.”

“I’m going to ruin her. I’ll demolish her family’s finances, leaving her penniless and begging in the streets,” Draco savagely pronounces. “Come Monday morning, Astoria Greengrass will be wishing for a Time-Turner and praying to Merlin that someone will take pity on her unkind, useless hide.”

“Draco! I absolutely forbid it – and you don’t want to cross me on this,” Hermione returns to her own chair, the better to remonstrate with her furious boyfriend. “I think Astoria might be inspired to change her catty ways, if she takes some time to consider what I said to her.”

“She insulted your honour, your intelligence, your heritage, your name, and our relationship, Hermione – I will not allow such heinous infractions to go unpunished,” Draco stiffly contends.

Hermione cocks her head. “Well, if you won’t see reason, I guess I won’t…” she whispers the rest of her sentence into the reddening shell of Draco’s ear. Despite her straining efforts, Pansy fails to learn the conclusion.

“You make an excellent point, _ma petite_ : I bow to your superior wit and judgement,” Draco performs an about-face with impressive rapidity. “Perhaps we could adjourn to your office, to further discuss the topic?”.

“No, you don’t – not without accompaniment,” Harry jumps up as Draco begins to squire Hermione from the table. “You both promised, remember?”.

“Send Gilmont and Faulkner to the end of the hall – we shan’t be long,” Draco airily waves at the Auror team. “No one comes inside though – or they’ll live to regret it.” His pale hand dips to the generous curve of Hermione’s bum, squeezing strongly as she giggles.

“Malfoy! Oi! Wait!” Harry exasperatedly rumples at his hair before summoning his colleagues to follow the amorous pair. He repeats Draco’s haughty instructions; they hurry out of the vast space.

“Let them go: at least this way we aren’t forced to witness them audaciously mauling each other all night,” Pansy grins at a petulant-looking Harry. She reaches for his warm hand before she realizes what she’s doing; Harry holds on as she tries to pull away.

He links their fingers more securely as he quietly admits, “I’m mostly bothered because I had intended for Gilmont and Faulkner to keep watch on the pair of lovable twits while we danced, Pansy… and now, I have to wait. I really want to hold you in my arms.” He brings her trembling hand to his lips, slowly kissing the inside of her wrist.

 _He must be able to feel my pulse jittering beneath his mouth._ _Oh, Circe… this man is killing me softly with his tenderness._ Feeling reckless, Pansy wears her heart on her sleeve for once.

“I can’t wait either… Harry.” Revelling in the way his pupils blow wide as she speaks his given name, Pansy ignores the alarmed little voice in her brain hollering at her to shut the hell up.

Instead of extricating her digits from his, she scrapes her chair closer, the better to facilitate their handhold without stretching.

_I am going to slow dance with Harry James Potter; and I am bloody well going to enjoy every second of it._

_You bet I am._


	7. Revile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Pansy's first dance; and Ron being an utter arse.

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

“Finally!” Harry grumbles, as Hermione and Draco languidly stroll back into the function room. “Bloody hell, you’re both lousy with love bites and scratches – no, don’t bother to reply, you look disgustingly pleased with yourselves. Just sit down and stay put while Pansy and I dance,” he tetchily instructs.

“Nice one, Pollyanna,” Pansy snickers, as Harry holds out an authoritative hand to lead her from the table. “You look well– ”

“Pansy!” Hermione hisses.

“ – loved. What did you think I was going to say? Shame on you, you dirty little bird,” Pansy guffaws as Hermione’s face pinkens. “I’m surprised you can still blush, considering what you’ve obviously been doing with the Lord of the Manor,” she points to a complacent Draco. “I hope – for our sakes – you worked it out of your systems for the evening.”

“I refuse to dignify that rude query with a response,” Hermione primly ripostes, dropping a sly wink as Harry scoffs. “Go on, have fun – and make sure you hold Harry tightly, he’s not the most confident dancer.”

“Thanks, love,” Harry mutters. “Try to stay out of trouble for the next five minutes, that’s all I ask.” He hustles Pansy away from the group, his work-roughened hand resting firmly on her hip. Pansy acerbically warns herself to settle down, as her pulse skitters stupidly at Harry’s touch.

_It’s just a dance. Breathe. Enjoy yourself. Just because people are staring at you with their eyes on stalks – that merely means they’re blown away with what a handsome couple we make, right? They’re not judging you… they’re not asking themselves what The Boy Who Lived is doing with the likes of **you**. _

“Pansy? What’s wrong? Did you – do you not wish to dance?” Harry must have sensed her turmoil; he turns her to face him, before they step onto the dance floor proper. He is close enough to kiss; Pansy doesn’t want to admit how tempted she is to do just that.

“I’m worried that I– I feel like people are wondering what you’re doing– with me,” Pansy confesses, hating the feeling of needy vulnerability that is taking over her mind (and apparently loosening her tongue). “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“Bruck-bruck-bruck. Cluck-cluck-cluck. Ber-kirk!” Harry suddenly chitters, further drawing the attention of the couples around them. He starts to make a funny trotting motion, head bobbing oddly.

“Harry – what the fuck are you doing?” Pansy snips in a low tone, equal parts alarmed and amused.

“Acting the rooster to your chicken, of course.” Harry cluck-cluck-clucks them to the middle of the dance floor, grinning cheerfully. “Since you’re foolishly concerned about the opinions of strangers – let them focus their stupid gazes on me, instead. Cock-a-doodle-do!” he actually throws back his head as he warbles the last.

“Harry! Cut it out, you maniac!” Pansy can’t quell her helpless laughter, as she slaps a hand over his smiling mouth. He mumbles something unintelligible against her palm, his breath warm. “What?” she takes away her muffling fingers.

He folds her hand in his, guiding it to his shoulder, before his own hands slide to the curves of her waist. Dipping his head, Harry softly speaks, “I said: if people are staring at you, Pansy… it’s because you’re so gorgeous. I’ve never seen a more beautiful, strong, vibrant woman, Miss Parkinson. Don’t you dare imply that this – _us_ – is somehow wrong, or scandalous. I’m the luckiest man in this room – and they know it. Dance with me, please?”

 _Who knew Harry Potter was so irresistibly romantic?_ Pansy is hopelessly lost to his unpractised, sincere charm. His splendid green eyes crinkle at the corners as he continues to grin down at her. The music has switched to a slow love ballad, the lead singer crooning something about ‘magic nights’ _. Trite… but it works._

Pansy nods her assent, frightened she’ll embarrass herself horribly if she tries to speak. She hesitantly cuddles a little closer into the brunet Auror, her breath quietly catching as his heartbeat thumps against her cheek. Harry seems content to take small shuffling steps, his capable hands gliding over her back in delicious light circles. Pansy quivers as his fingertips brush just above the low back of her silk gown.

“See? Hermione was just being mean – I’m a perfectly competent dancer,” Harry murmurs, as Pansy closes her eyes in happiness.

“You’re a pretty good swayer – I’ll give you that,” Pansy chuckles. “This is… this is nice, Harry.” _This is wonderful,_ she thinks, but daren’t say.

“Nice – pfft. Don’t make me start up again with the chicken noises, Pansy,” Harry goads; she can hear the smile in his voice.

“No, please! No more Rooster Harry… OK, this is lovely.” _And sweet, and sexy… and dangerously, uncommonly intimate,_ Pansy realizes with a pang. _Uncommon for me, anyway. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I’m scared silly,_ she acknowledges to herself.

Releasing a sad little sough against the red wool of his formal Auror robes, Pansy lets herself forget – just for a moment – her long-held assertion that she isn’t looking for anything serious. _Maybe I can take a chance on Harry… maybe I can eventually trust him enough to explain some of why I keep myself – my life – so structured… so guarded. Maybe…_

“Can I cut in?” the unwelcome voice resounds beside her ear. Snapping open her eyes, Pansy is horrified to see Ron Weasley standing beside them. _Oh, fuck no._

“No!” she and Harry reply together. Pansy stiffens as Ron’s expression cycles through hurt, resentment… and lastly, spite.

“What – I’m good enough to take home for the night for a quick shag – but not worthy of a simple dance?” Ron speaks loudly enough for half the ruddy ballroom to hear; Pansy notes scandalized eyes whipping around to avidly goggle at the escalating confrontation. What troubles her most is Harry’s instinctual tension – and his loosened grip on her body, as Ron’s caustic declaration hangs in the air.

Dread lodging heavily in her belly and throat, Pansy disengages from Harry, stepping back to register transparent shock, disappointment… and condemnation on his grim face, his narrowed gaze flicking between her and his long-time pal.

“You– you slept with Ron?” The unmistakable judgement infused into Harry’s whispered question hits her as hard as a slap across the face. Pansy goes on the ‘offensive defensive’ immediately, her pride stung… and her heart quailing.

“No– I fucked him. On his birthday, apparently. Found him in a dark field, took him home, screwed him on my couch,” she drawls, inspecting her lilac-painted fingernails and adopting a pose of insouciant world-weariness. _As befits the painted whore. Might as well live down to the low expectations._ “I certainly didn’t allow him into my _bed_ – I’ve never been that hard up,” she quips bitterly. “But then, what else would you expect from the Parkinson slut?”.

“Oh.” Harry’s hands convulsively crimp into fists, his aspect growing ever more closed and blank. Pansy turns on Ron.

“You happy now, Weasley? Got your petty revenge? Who were you hoping to strike harder: the witch you used you as a dildo, or your best mate? You stupid, immature, pathetic little man,” she scornfully snarls, each word a carefully-enunciated verbal icicle. “I’d rather dance with the devil himself than let you touch me ever again, you fuckstick.”

 _I have to get out of here before I start crying – there is no way I could live with myself if I had a bloody meltdown in the sodding ballroom._ Pansy forces herself to slow down, her eyes already burning with angry tears as she casually rotates on her spindly heels and looks for the nearest exit.

“Pansy – wait – I didn’t mean – “ she quickens her pace, steadfastly ignoring Harry’s belated response, and his agitated footsteps behind her.

She has almost made it to her seat when Harry’s hand on her shoulder stops her jittery forward motion.

“Pansy. Please, I want to apologize – I really didn’t mean to insinuate– ” She refuses to turn her head as Harry stutters behind her.

“I saw your face, Potter. I saw your revulsion when you realized I’d had sex with him. It doesn’t matter what you say to me now – _I saw your face_. Leave me alone - forever.” Pansy recites the words as though she’s reading from the dinner menu, her mind busily tamping down the boiling furnace of her messy emotional state.

“No, no – I was surprised, that’s all– ”

“I said LEAVE ME ALONE! I’m not doing this – why can’t you just leave me alone!” Pansy yanks herself clear, vaguely perceiving the shocked faces of the rest of their party as she hurtles past the table and toward the far corridor. Chairs shriek discordantly as they are rudely pushed back; Hermione makes an abortive grab at her, but thankfully misses. Pansy clatters down the hallway leading to the elevators, her hands holding her long purplish skirts out of the way. She is grateful that her skillset includes running in stilettos. _I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry._

“What have you fucking done to her, Potter?” Draco bellows, his hands tangling in the front of Harry’s robes as the Auror tries to tear past him in pursuit.

“Draco, let him go, we need to make sure Pansy’s OK,” Hermione prises his fingers loose. “Hurry! She’s already out of sight!”.

“Gilmont, Faulkner, with me!” Harry calls, as the Auror pair hurry over. “Everyone else, stay put.”

“Bollocks to that – she’s our friend. We’re coming with you,” Draco coldly rebukes. “Viktor, will you please stay here with Ginny and Luna? We’ll be back as soon as we find Pansy.”

“Of course. Go, go,” Viktor shakes his head warningly and wraps his arms around a wriggling Ginny. “Miss Luna, I can trust to not bolt.”

Hermione and Draco fall in behind Harry, Gilmont, and Faulkner, their wands already drawn.

“She went this way,” Harry points to the far left side of the branched corridor.

“I swear, Potter– if anything happens to her because she ran from you– ”

“If you’re going to threaten me instead of being marginally useful, you can fu– ”

“Stop it! The pair of you! When we find Pansy, you can sort out your differences then. But if you’re going to bicker like a couple of kindergarten kids, I’ll Stun you both myself,” Hermione vows. “Focus.”

Draco and Harry nod curtly, though Draco snidely mutters, “The Weasel was behind this, wasn’t he? Fatheaded, sour-graped, childish little shit. I’m going to punch him fair in his moronic mug for this.”

“Get in line,” Harry growls. “And shut up.”


	8. Seize

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

Pansy hikes up her skirt again, putting on a burst of speed as she hears her name being called from the corridor she’s recently skedaddled down. Her tear-blurred vision and burning need to isolate herself in order to lick her wounds in private had resulted in her spending the better part of ten minutes cantering confusedly about the rabbit warren of back hallways and storage rooms between the ballroom and the main Atrium. Fortunately, her path had not crossed Harry’s; Pansy had recognized his worried voice yelling her name, along with Hermione and Draco.

 _I just need to get to the Departure Floos and go home… I’m not going to cry here… I won’t let them steal the final shreds of my tattered dignity…_ The compulsive, looping thoughts quicken her hurtling steps. _What a fucking disaster – I should have known better than to think I could enjoy a fancy night out with my… friends._ _And as for Ron Weasley – I’ll look up the best dick-diseasing curses as a matter of highest priority. Utter. Immature. Arse._

Pausing briefly, Pansy attempts to take stock of exactly where she is in this shadowy labyrinth. _Which crazy fool designed this floor, anyway – it’s got more twists and turns than a Muggle detective story_. Her breath burns in her lungs as she darts down a wider, vaguely familiar corridor.

The image of Harry’s censorious face swims before her stinging eyes. _How dare he judge me… I’ve every right to indulge in casual sex if I choose to. Morgana’s kirtle – what a wretched prig Mr High and Mighty Potter turned out to be._ _And to think I believed – No._

Pansy wills her thoughts away from her sad little hopes. _This is what happens when you forget your resolve to steer clear of emotional entanglements,_ she lectures her silly, crushed heart. _Sprinting through the bowels of the Ministry of Magic like a bloody lunatic… in Italian stilettos. They’ll be wrecked by the time I make it home._

Her frantic pace slows as she rounds the last corner and spies the Floos. _Thank Merlin_. Pansy wraps her arms around herself, suddenly conscious of how eerily isolated the vast space feels. _I don’t think I’ve ever been here without another creature in sight… talk about a creepy vibe._

She is before the first Floo and reaching for the obligatory pinch of green powder when a hand bands around her torso, another covering her mouth; a hard body presses along her back and legs as a low male voice warns, “Don’t fight me, witch – or I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear. Arms up, there’s a good girl.”

Cold steel at her windpipe, Pansy freezes. Her right hand twitches toward the cunningly disguised wand pocket tucked beneath the gathered cuff at her right hip, stilling as the tip of the knife pricks her skin.

“Did I not just say I’d cut your throat, you daft bitch?” the man behind her hisses, as her cry of pain is silenced by his palm. The knife twists cruelly, a thin rivulet of blood running down Pansy’s neck.

“I’m taking my hand away to retrieve your wand – if you make the slightest noise, I’ll kill you. Your choice, slut.” A gloved hand jerks free her wand; the loss of her trusty weapon hits home how dire her situation just became.

Pansy closes her eyes, as her terror and panic threaten to devolve into full hysteria. _Think, Parkinson, think – maybe an elbow to his guts?_ The knife point digs in harder, as though her mystery assailant can hear her agitated thoughts. His harsh tone is a repulsively intimate sibilation in her ear. Beneath her fear, Pansy strains as something in his disguised voice sparks recognition. _I_ know _this bastard… concentrate… I must **concentrate** …_

“Ah-ah-ah, Little Flower… you’re not the blossom I intended to pluck, but you’ll do quite well as a tethered goat to stake, hmmm? Bear in mind you’re thoroughly dispensable, and don’t try anything idiotically courageous – you’re a Snake, sweetie, not a Lion. You’ll do exactly as I say, if you want to stay alive.”

Her involuntary sob at the man’s use of the abhorrent endearment – a cooing nickname that has haunted her nightmares for years – seems to please him; he chuckles in delight as Pansy’s muscles lock in horrified reaction.

“Now, now, we’ll address that delicious reaction a little later, pet: what I need you to focus on at this moment is screaming for me – as loud as you can… as though your life depended on it, one might say?” he directs, his free hand rising from her waist to fondle at her right breast through the bodice of her purple silk gown, squeezing cruelly as she gasps in pain.

“No– no, please,” Pansy whimpers, lost to foul memories she’d fought so hard to overcome. “Don’t…”

Her pleas are ignored as he viciously twists her nipple, laughing softly as a scream rips from her throat, reverberating throughout the vast, empty chamber.

“That’s the spirit, sweetness,” he grunts approvingly. “Once more now, with feeling.” His large hand clamps over her breast, constricting the tender flesh with merciless force.

Pansy isn’t aware of how long her second scream lasts: misery and pain flood her senses, as the tears she’d fought so hard to stifle stream down her cheeks and neck, mingling with the steady trickle of blood from the shallow knife wound. She is disgustingly aware that her suffering excites her sadistic assailant, and not merely from the undisguised glee in his soft laughter; she is pulled tight enough against him to feel him poking at her back.

The revolting awareness of his excitation helps to ground her, as the vile pressure of his gripping hand finally eases, and her scream abates. Rage replaces her immobilizing fear. _Never again._ Pansy holds tight to her resolution, taking care that her bolstered mental state doesn’t translate to her limp body. _Let him think me incapacitated with fear – all the better for when I do strike. You’re going down, fucker._

“Listen – here comes the cavalry,” he confidently pronounces, clutching her even tighter. The sound of approaching multiple rapid footsteps ricochets about the Atrium. Pansy’s heart sinks as she considers the ramifications of the group’s arrival.

Before she can think about how best to free herself from her attacker’s loathsome hold, he hits her with a _‘Petrificus Totalus’_. Pansy’s hope that she will live to see the dawn withers as every part of her body (save her eyes and lungs) paralyzes. Even her tears dry up as Harry, Draco, Hermione, and Aurors Faulkner and Gilmont careen into view.

 _I’m so pathetically, selfishly dumb… and now, I’ve endangered my friends._ Pansy’s misery deepens as the man who’s snatched her purrs in fiendish triumph.

 _Please, don’t sacrifice yourselves for me,_ she tries to convey with her eyes alone. _I’m not worth it…_ _please. I’m so sorry._


	9. Vanish

_Friday 21 March 2003:PM_

Harry doesn’t react when Draco accidentally collides with his back as they take in the ghastly scenario before them; his attention is entirely centred on the horrendous tableau beside the far Departure Floo – roughly twenty feet away, his Auror brain automatically calculates, while the rest of his mind screams in unadulterated fear and fury. His already-fierce grip on his wand tightens.

_Oh, hell no – he’s got Pansy – he’s holding a knife to her throat, and he’s Petrified her –_

“Harry– breathe. We’ll figure this out.” Hermione’s urgent whisper helps to ground him.

“Get a hold of yourself, Potter,” Malfoy’s far less sympathetic growl oddly has the same effect, as they all skid to a stop. “Who the fuck is this arsehole?”.

Eyes roaming feverishly over the tall form ominously disguised in Death Eater robes and mask, Harry searches desperately for anything that may indicate the perpetrator’s true identity _. That silver mask looks familiar… is it…?_

“That’s Walden MacNair’s old mask – but that’s not Walden MacNair,” Draco grimly pronounces, keeping his voice hushed as the quintet begin to slowly advance. Gilmont and Faulkner take flanking positions, while Harry pushes forward between Hermione and Draco.

“Are you certain, Malfoy?” Harry demands. Everyone halts as the hooded figure repositions the wickedly sharp dagger at Pansy’s bleeding, vulnerable throat.

Harry’s wrath boils higher at the realization that she’s already been injured. Pansy’s eyes are green pools of anguished sorrow. _She looks like a broken doll– I can’t– I **won’t** let him hurt her. _

His terror fades as his professional training takes over, clearing his blazing panic and honing his senses.

“Positive. MacNair was roughly as tall, but never that bulky,” Draco mutters out the side of his mouth. “Whomever this prick is, he’s young and strong – look at how easily he’s holding her upright.”

It’s true: the mystery aggressor is controlling Pansy’s frozen form with ease, one hand resting just below her breast; and the knife digging into her delicate skin is being skillfully held in place.

“Harry, we can’t risk hitting him with any spells– that knife is too close to her jugular,” Hermione breathes.

“Ms Granger’s correct, sir: the risk is too great,” Gilmont offers; Faulkner tips his square chin in agreement, his eyes fixedly trained ahead.

Effective responses to a hostage situation race through Harry’s brain, though he doesn’t get the opportunity to decide which one to employ as the assailant begins speaking.

“Come any closer, and I’ll slice her neck like a plump little piggy’s,” the man announces, his voice muffled by the mask… and some sort of distortion spell, Harry judges.

“Wands down, unless you want this Little Flower to be dead-headed,” the mystery criminal demands.

Harry jerks his head for the others to comply, pointing his own wand to the floor with great reluctance. _I refuse to release it – I’d rather take my chances with one of us hitting the scumbag before he can cut Pansy._

“Now for the negotiation! I’ll keep it simple: send over the darling Miss Granger, and I’ll let you keep pretty little Pansy, with her neck still intact,” the taunting voice proclaims.

Draco’s roar of savage anger has Harry pivoting; he is relieved to see the blond wizard’s wand is still lowered, though he is wrapped around Hermione like a Venomous Tentacular vine. Hermione appears composedly determined, which immediately fills Harry with dread.

“Let’s make a different deal: I’ll come over instead, no weapons, no traces – and you can let Pansy go,” Harry coolly replies, slipping his wand into his pocket and holding up his hands in surrender. “Think of the coup of keeping me hostage to do with me what you will: surely you’ve envisioned this moment many times?” he baits.

A raucous snigger emits from their enemy. “Sorry, Potter – I don’t swing that way, and no amount of special spellwork is going to result in _you_ getting pregnant. You must be dumber than I gave you credit for,” he sneers. There is a trace of not-quite-controlled derangement underlining the cloaked voice that chills Harry’s blood.

“We have limitless Galleons at our disposal– and it’s easily accessed, all you need to do is accompany me to Gringotts– ” Harry tries again.

“Eh– you can’t buy a Golden Girl, can you? Quit wasting my time, you arrogant shit. I’ll take Hermione, or I’ll drag a dead bitch into the Floo with me. Your call.”

Gilmont paces forward. “How about me? I’m fertile – and a virgin. Bet that’s something you _are_ interested in exploring, right?”. Faulkner grabs her about the middle before she can walk any closer, his deep blue eyes flashing fire as he angrily shakes his head.

The masked man cocks his head. “Tempting… but no dice, babe. You don’t look like much of a crier – and I like ‘em sobbing beneath me when I come.”

The three wizards share a look of mutual furor at the inciting boast; Gus curls her lip in a repulsed hiss.

“Don’t react – he wants to get beneath our skin,” Harry cautions. “I’ll keep him talking, buy us some time– if we’re gone long enough, Wessex and Dunkeld are bound to show, and if they can get behind him– ”

“Let me go, Draco. I have to make the trade – it’s the only way Pansy survives.” Hermione’s calm voice cuts through Harry’s strategizing.

“Absolutely not. **ABSOLUTELY NOT**!” Draco bites off the words with frigid temper. “We’ll keep stalling, like Potter said. There must be something else we can offer– ”

“He came for me, and he won’t stop until he has me,” Hermione implacably states. “I’ve been training for this: he won’t get the better of me, I promise you.” She flicks her chocolate eyes to Harry, giving him a tiny smile of assurance. “I won’t let him hurt me.”

“No. **NO**. I know you want to save Pansy, but this IS NOT the way to do it, Hermione. You can’t– you cannot take the risk,” Draco switches his grip to her shoulders, shaking gently as he peers deeply into her eyes.

“I won’t allow it, do you understand?! I won’t lose you – Hermione, darling, my precious girl, my heart– I can’t risk losing you, I can’t– ” his rough whisper breaks as he crushes her to his chest, his grey eyes agonized.

Hermione hugs him tightly; Harry swallows and looks away, still furiously cogitating as to how he can salvage this impossible situation. Draco is murmuring brokenly in French, his hands compulsively roaming over Hermione as his tall body trembles.

“You have one minute – I’m tired of your ruddy dithering!” the Neo-Death Eater aggrievedly hollers. “Do you want me to cut this cow? I’ll do it, make no mistake!”. He drives the knife into the small hole already carved into Pansy’s supple neck; fresh blood dribbles out, following the same path down her neck and into her cleavage.

“Stop! I’m coming over. Just let me put down my wand, OK?” Hermione unceremoniously drops it to the parquet floor, before gently gathering Draco’s pale hands in her own. “Draco, do you trust me?” she stares intently at him.

“Of course I trust you, Hermione! But you don’t know what he’s capable of, _ma petite_! He’s already drugged you once, and will do so again– please, please don’t do this, I beg you– ”

The raw emotion in Malfoy’s hoarse tone makes Harry’s gut clench in sympathy. _Damn… he loves her so hard… and Hermione’s right there with him…_

“Look at me, Draco. Listen to me, _mon cœur_.” Harry holds his breath, surprised when no words come from Hermione’s mouth; instead, the couple simply gaze intensely at each other as the seconds elapse.

Releasing hands, they engage in a quick, passionate kiss, Draco cupping Hermione’s cheeks as her arms wind around his neck.

Breaking away, Hermione only has eyes for her lover as she vows, “I’ll come back to you, Draco Lucius Malfoy – whole and hearty. I promise. I love you with everything I am.”

“I love you with everything I am, Hermione Jean Granger. You always keep your promises – I’m holding you to that. _Je t’aime, ma chérie_.”

“ _Je t’aime, mon chéri_.” Somehow, Hermione is smiling despite her brimming eyes; she is amazingly self-possessed, despite the grave danger she is willingly walking into.

Harry can only watch in horror as his best friend of over twelve years straightens her shoulders and steps confidently towards what could very well be her doom.

“About fucking time,” the villain grumbles. “Get into the Floo and shut your pretty mouth, unless you want me to shut it for you.”

Hermione nods. Before she obeys the harsh order, she turns her head and drops the minutest of winks over her shoulder.

Bracing himself to rush forward and grab Pansy, Harry bellows as the masked man seizes Hermione by the neck… and drags Pansy into the Floo with them. The trio vanish in a puff of green smoke and a quiet rumble.

 _Gone – they’re **gone** – and we’ve no idea where, or with whom_… Harry tears viciously at his shaggy hair, maddened by his impotence in preventing this disaster. He turns to Draco, desperate to know if what he suspects is true.

“Malfoy– tell me you and Hermione can communicate telepathically – tell me you know where they are, come on!” he wildly exhorts. “Fucking hurry, man– Godric knows what that sick fuck has planned!”

Draco briefly looks as though he’s going to puke; were he not nearly insane with the need for rapid answers, Harry might admire the way the Slytherin visibly manages to pull himself together in their shared moment of direful crisis.

“She doesn’t yet know where they are – but she’ll tell me, as soon as she can,” Draco reveals, stooping to pick up Hermione’s discarded vine wood wand and slip it reverently inside his robes. “Hermione will keep them both alive until we can pinpoint their location– she’s smart, and she said– she said she’ll come back to me,” he gulps.

Harry bites back his incensed retort as Draco covers his ashen face with both hands; the wizard is clearly at breaking point. He rounds on Gilmont and Faulkner.

“Quick – what’s the last intelligence we have on MacNair? Any known hidey-holes or property that would suit as a bolthole or– or a prison cell?” his own voice falters as monstrous images of both women being shackled, strung up, and ruthlessly abused seep relentlessly into his consciousness.

“MacNair’s family estate in Northern Scotland burnt down in a retaliatory attack after the War, sir – as far as the Ministry’s been able to investigate, he didn’t have any other known property or safe houses; and his Dark associates are dead or imprisoned, to the best of our knowledge,” Kolton solemnly replies.

“Well, clearly he did have other filthy friends, since some evil fucker wearing his fucking Death Eater mask just kidnapped our witches!” Harry rants, aware that he is being unfair. “I’m sorry – I realize this isn’t your fault. But bloody hell, Gilmont – what the devil were you thinking, risking yourself in such a fashion? It’s a ruddy miracle he didn’t snatch you, too!”.

“Sir, I was just trying to–”

“Alright, alright, I know. How you were Sorted into Ravenclaw, I’ll never understand – talk about the courage of a lion,” Harry sighs. He gives his hair a last vicious yank before his fists drop to his side and he addresses the shellshocked group.

“We need to move: you two, head straight back to the Gala. Get all the other Aurors together and stand guard at every exit – no one leaves, not until we figure out who’s behind all this. If anyone needs the toilet, escort them separately. Tell them we’re running a security drill – hell, I don’t give a rat’s arse what excuse you use, just ensure you keep them corralled, OK? I’m about to send a Patronus to Pritchard-Hawes to apprise him of the sitrep, and ask for all hands on deck.’

“Oh– and once you’ve stabilized the new security parameters, round up Zabini and Nott: escort them, Viktor, Ginny and Luna back here as soon as you can, got it? Malfoy and I will stay by the Floos – the moment we have a location, we leave,” Harry adds, as the partners nod and prepare to depart.

“What about Ronald Weasley, sir?” asks Gilmont; her face is impassive, though her eyes hold clear contempt.

“He stays in the ballroom – for his own protection,” Harry growls. “I’ll deal with him later.”

The Aurors run from the Atrium, Gus in the lead. Ignoring their slapping footsteps, Harry concentrates fiercely, until his regal Stag Patronus materializes before him. He speaks the necessary words for his message, keeping his sentences clear and concise. The silvery corporeal buck gallops gracefully from the room, leaving a fine misty trail in its wake.

“Rather a neat party trick, Potter,” Draco observes. Harry shoots him an assessing glance: though Malfoy’s voice is a shade raspy and uneven, the terror and dread previously displayed across his pallid features has mostly dispelled.

“It has its uses,” Harry allows. “Are you right to tell me now how it’s possible for you and Hermione to communicate without words… and at considerable distance, I assume?”.

“We’re soul-bonded, Potter: our magical cores have mated, and I think– I hope– our connection will protect her. It has to protect her– _it has to_ ,” Draco mutters staunchly, his eyes blind with a heart-rending amalgam of hope and despair.

“We’ll get them back, Malfoy, you heard Hermione– she’s the smartest person I’ve ever known, and she’s a fighter– she’ll be OK, mate,” Harry says the words as much for his benefit as for the stricken man beside him.

“Potter, I can’t– if anything happens to her– if he– h-hurts her– or Pansy– ” Draco’s torment is horribly apparent in his disintegrating vocalization.

“You can’t think like that– you told her you trust her, mate. Tap into some of that legendary elitist Malfoy cool and stay focused on Hermione, you hear me? And when you’re ready, you can explain exactly what ‘soul-bonded’ truly means,” Harry prompts.

Grasping Draco’s elbow, Harry steers him to the side of the fireplaces as he prepares to listen… and learn.

_We’re going to get back our wonderful witches – whole, and unharmed._

_Whatever it takes._


	10. Plan

_Friday 21 March 2003:PM_

Harry has just sent off his second Patronus stag to Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes when Gilmont and Faulkner reappear, leading Blaise, Theo, and the rest of their party (except Ron) into the Atrium. He hurries to intercept them before they intrude upon Draco’s critical reverie.

“Malfoy’s connecting his magical core to Hermione’s– long story– they’re soul-bonded– she’s going to remotely channel his magic because Cormac drugged her again,” Harry imparts in a low voice.

“McLaggen?!” asks Theo, bewilderment turning to cold fury.

“That wanker?!” Ginny growls, her slender hands tightening on her black yew wood wand.

“Fucking sleazeball!” Blaise loudly rumbles, repeating the phrase under his breath as Harry frowns at him.

“Who is this filthy _plŭkh_ … rat, now?” Viktor demands. “I know him not.”

“Cormac’s smile has always been unkind,” Luna remarks softly. “Soul-bonded… that’s really lovely, though I wish we’d discovered this under different circumstances.” Her sweet face is pinched with sorrow and concern.

“Listen, I need to know – do any of you have any idea of where Cormac might have taken them? A holiday spot… anything he might have mentioned, that has some meaning to him?” Harry imperatively addresses the group.

A slight pause, before everyone seems to excitedly chatter at once. _Bloody hell, they sound like monkeys at the zoo._

“Guys – please!” Harry throws an anxious glance in Malfoy’s direction, relieved that the discordant hubbub doesn’t appear to have registered with the meditating wizard. “One at a time, alright?” he requests, in a quieter tone.

“I always thought he was a grandstanding dickhead, never paid him much attention,” Blaise admits, frustration tightening his wide shoulders.

“I avoided him like the plague – he was forever backing unsuspecting witches into corners at school – I thought he was just a pest, I wish I’d realized he was a _rapist_ ,” Ginny spits.

“Wasn’t he the fool who ate four dozen Doxy eggs for a bet?” Theo wonders. “Sorry, Harry – I rarely ever spoke to him.”

Viktor worriedly demands, “But ve must learn of the place he takes Herm-own-ninny and Miss Pansy!”.

“Auror Potter, we’ve secured the ballroom; so far, no one is kicking up much of a stink about not being able to leave. Faulkner suggested the Ministry spring for extra barrels of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey, and the band has agreed to keep playing, so most folks are still merrily drinking, or boogieing on the dancefloor,” Gilmont states.

The rest of the gang falls into a fraught silence, swapping concerned glances.

“It’s a tad obvious: but have you checked his uncle Tiberius’s secret hunting lodge?” Luna pipes up, shrugging gracefully as seven pairs of eyes turn to her in amazement. “You know, the one in Suffolk? He used to invite Cormac there to stalk red deer – well, to _shoot_ them, ‘stalking’ is a ridiculous euphemism, really– ”

“Luna– do you happen to know exactly where in Suffolk this lodge is situated?” Harry fervently queries. “And how do you know of it? Forgive my abruptness, please – every second counts in this crisis.”

Luna shrugs; the movement lightly rattles her dangling silver belled earrings as she answers, “Cormac once told me at a Halloween party that it was just outside the village of Ampton in West Suffolk, about five miles north of Bury St Edmunds. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, Harry.’

“Oh, people often confide in me at gatherings, usually for want of their preferred company paying them any attention. I don’t ask for confessions, but I hear them, nevertheless. Father says that if you don’t take up much conversational space, people rush in to fill it,” Luna reveals.

 _You bloody legend, Luna Lovegood!_ Harry busses her on both cheeks, barely able to stop himself from dancing for joy as she squeaks in surprise.

“Luna – you’re a national treasure – don’t you dare let anyone ever tell you otherwise, you hear me?”. Harry releases her after a quick, affectionate hug.

“Gilmont – I need you to immediately head to the Records Room to unearth everything you can about Tiberius McLaggen’s last will and testament: even if Cormac claimed the hunting lodge’s exact whereabouts was a secret, Tiberius would have had to have listed it somewhere in the document, or risk losing the entail on a technicality,” Harry orders. “Faulkner, I want you with me, in case we have to strike at a moment’s notice.”

Gus clamps shut her mouth, clearly displeased by the specialized directive. “But sir– if we do mount a raid, I want to be equally involved– ”

“You’re better at rapidly processing vital information – I’m not playing favourites. The clock’s ticking, Gus,” Harry curtly reminds. “Second one of the other Aurors from the ballroom as back-up, on your way through.”

“I’ll go with her,” Blaise announces, already moving to Gilmont’s side. “Time is of the essence, yeah? I’ve had basic defensive training, never fear,” he says, in reply to Harry’s sceptical expression.

“Alright – just go, go! Once Malfoy’s finished, we’ll Apparate to Ampton village and proceed from there,” Harry barks. He is thankful that Gus doesn’t waste any more time protesting; she settles for bestowing him a fulminating look and tearing off to the elevator bank, not bothering to check whether Zabini is keeping pace.

 _I’m not certain what’s going on there – but Gilmont can more than take care of herself._ Harry dismisses the issue for the time being.

Pivoting, he checks on Draco. _Still looks like he’s deeply involved in their peculiar magic transfer,_ Harry assesses. _Merlin’s beard… I hope he knows what he’s about – the fate of our witches could very well rest upon it. Hermione and Pansy, I mean,_ he corrects himself, refusing to dwell on his reflexive use of the pronoun ‘our’. _I’ll be lucky if Pansy ever speaks to me again, considering how badly I reacted to Ron’s inflammatory disclosure. I admit I was shocked… but I never meant to imply I judged Pansy – I was angry that Ron was so purposefully insensitive and nasty._

His stomach flips as his mind ruthlessly runs through the gamut of worst-case scenarios again.

 _Please, let them be OK… please…_ Harry silently begs the universe.

_Please give me the chance to apologize… and to hold Pansy in my arms again…_

_They **have** to be OK._


	11. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is from Hermione's P.O.V.
> 
> Eventually I plan to rewrite this scene from Pansy's viewpoint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning: violence, blood, misogyny, sexist language, and angst**

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

Hermione draws a full breath, grounding herself back into her physical surroundings just as Cormac steps out of his trousers and underwear. He ostentatiously twirls his black jocks a few times, before pitching them to the floor. Cupping and roughly stroking his genitals, Cormac leers down at her, picking up his horrid dagger again.

“Hold nice and still for me, Golden Girl – this blade is razor sharp, just ask your little friend if you don’t believe me,” he sniggers. “I’ll have you out of that dress in a jiffy… and then the fun really starts. Now, I encourage crying piteously – but if you are dumb enough to try to fight me off, I’ll start cutting, got it?” he swishes the mean little knife in the air to emphasize his threat.

Staying perfectly still, Hermione pathetically sniffles, “Yes, Cormac.”

“Call me ‘Master’; you’re my little bitch now, ‘Mione – better get used to it,” Cormac maliciously grins. He turns to Pansy.

“Same goes for you, Little Flower – your continued existence is totally dependent on how well you can follow orders,” he sneers. “It’s a shame you’re so promiscuous… but you’ll do as a back-up brood mare, I suppose. Watch and learn, sugar.”

Summoning her reinvigorated magic, Hermione releases Pansy’s Petrification with a swift, wandless ‘ _Finite Incantatem_ ’, accompanied by an experimental telepathic message.

**_Pansy – I just lifted the Petrificus Totalus - don’t move yet… let this prick believe we’re still at his mercy for a little longer. My magic is back, and stronger than ever; when I make my move, back me up, please. Blink twice if you understand._ **

**Blink, blink** : Pansy wastes no time responding. Her stormy beryl eyes narrow fleetingly, before she simulates frozen submissiveness.

Cormac leans down, huffing crossly. “This ugly bit of gold tat wrapped around your head has to go– a gift from your alkie lord of the manor, I take it? Doesn’t surprise me he has to pay for sex one way or another… wish I could be there when he realizes I’ve snatched you right beneath his pointy nose,” he crows, flipping the dagger onto the bed, next to Hermione’s right hip.

 _We’ll see who’s gloating in a moment, you dunderheaded turd_. Hermione bides her time, waiting for McLaggen to grab for her laurel-leaf headband.

“I’ve seen better jewellery come out of Christmas crackers, honestly; I guess the Malfoy coffers aren’t as full as they– **FUCK**!” Cormac bellows, as the tip of his right index finger is cleanly sliced off by the enchanted metalwork. Hermione revels in his agonized, uncomprehending scream.

Jack-knifing upward in one fluid motion, Hermione gathers the discarded dagger into her right hand as she headbutts Cormac with practised ferocity, collecting him directly in his forehead. The golden leaves morph into vicious barbs, embedding in his temples; Hermione reaches up to disengage the thin garland from her own head, without incurring a single scratch. She leaves the weaponized leaves stuck in Cormac’s bloodied brow, for the time being.

_Damn – Draco really is an exceedingly talented wizard. I must remember to lavishly praise him for this particular piece of ingenious cursework, later._

Adjusting her grip on the wicked little knife, Hermione drives her left knee straight into Cormac’s shrivelled, unprotected groin with ruthless efficiency. The naked thug crumples like poor quality parchment, clutching his bruised testicles and emitting a high-pitched squeal of unadulterated pain.

Dropping to a crouch, Hermione jabs the tip of the dagger into Cormac’s gulping throat, replicating his abuse of Pansy in the Atrium. Her blood is humming with a combination of near-overloaded magic and her fiery desire for revenge. Cormac momentarily ceases writhing, his cringing gaze reluctantly colliding with her triumphal one.

“You are so fucked, Cormac,” Hermione hisses, peripherally aware of Pansy wobbling off the bed and stepping to McLaggen’s other side. “I’m sorely tempted to sever your worthless throat and leave you to bleed out on the floor, you irredeemable scumbag.”

“Do it!” Pansy snarls. “Give me the damned knife, Pollyanna – I’ll carve him like a fucking pumpkin!” She delivers a brutal kick to his already-compromised bollocks with the pointed tip of her high heel, grunting in barbarous delight as Cormac openly sobs. The blood from the laurel leaf wounds flows steadily down his brow and cheeks in a freakishly grotesque pattern.

 _As for his severed fingertip – well, he’s unlikely to exsanguinate because of it. Let him bleed._ Hermione deliberately Accio’s the amputated piece of flesh beneath the bed.

“P-Please– please don’t– ” Cormac weakly keens. “I wasn’t– I wasn’t really going to– ”

“What?! You weren’t going to repeatedly rape and forcibly impregnate us? Hold us captive in your scaly basement and inflict all manner of sexual depravities upon us? Drug and demean us and make us your _breed slaves_?!?” Pansy’s wild scream hinges on hysteria. “You’re a foul, soulless monster– where’s my wand– I’ll Avada this bastard myself, I swear I will!”.

Without taking her eyes off Cormac’s squirming and crying form, Hermione soothes her friend. “I’m so sorry he hurt you, Pansy, and I know he deserves to suffer… and suffer he will, in the lonely bowels of Azkaban. He’ll pay for his crimes, as will Flint. You’re safe now, I promise.”

Pansy’s reaction is to coldly press the implanted headband deeper into Cormac’s head, using the flat of her shoe. “You’re lucky Hermione has a heart of gold – I’d kill you without a backward glance, fuckface. Look at you, cowering on the floor, pitifully shielding your micro penis… bee’s dick, I should say.”

Hermione pulls back the dagger slightly, lest the pressure Pansy is applying to Cormac’s forehead accidentally impale him on the knife. _If I end him, I want it to be on purpose._

“Pansy, I need to dismantle the maiming wards they’ve laid on the property: if I return your wand to you, will you swear not to use an Unforgivable on him? Scrap that – I‘ll Petrify him myself,” Hermione settles.

“No! I want– I _need_ to help, Hermione. Please,” Pansy passionately entreats. “Please,” she repeats, in a substantially more controlled manner.

“Are you sure?” Hermione murmurs, still a little dubious. Cormac continues to groan and feebly thrash between them.

“Yeah. I’m OK – I’ll be OK,” Pansy amends, lifting her foot from Cormac’s bloodied face. She scrubs at her tear-marked cheeks and tries for a small, stiff smile of assurance. “Go on, pass me my wand and work your fancy magic… I want to get out of this shithole before sunrise,” she grouses. “If Ikea hired the Marquis de Sade as a room designer, this would be the tragic result: ‘Dunggeön Lite’.”

 _At least she’s recovered enough to be cracking jokes._ Hermione chuckles softly as she replies, “Wait – you’ve darkened the doors of a Muggle Ikea? On purpose?”.

“Once, and never again – the one-way maze of the entry/exit layout is a modern-day hellscape,” Pansy decrees with a contemptuous sniff. “Wand me, please.”

Hermione flicks Pansy’s slim holly wood caduceus off the shelf Cormac placed it (next to the sinister Death Eater mask) and flies it into Pansy’s waiting hand; she grips it with grim satisfaction.

“Thanks, Hermione. Do your thing– this shitbag isn’t going anywhere.” At Hermione’s diffident look, Pansy exasperatedly asserts, “I promise not to kill him, OK? Look, I’m just going to bind the bastard.”

Confidently chanting, “ _Incarcerous_ ”, Pansy engenders thick black chains to blast from the end of her wand, trussing McLaggen from his neck to his toes; he wails as Pansy adjusts the bindings to effectively hog-tie him into a sideways arch.

Satisfied that Cormac’s menace has been thoroughly nullified, Hermione stands up, stepping back and moving to the centre of the stone-walled basement. Closing her eyes and regulating her breathing, she is about to start the process of identifying and disassembling the vicious wards that are protecting the space when anguished male screams emanate behind her.

Swivelling, Hermione lifts her eyebrow as she witnesses Pansy mercilessly delivering a series of hard kicks to Cormac’s swollen scrotum, using her stiletto heel as a spear. “That’s for piercing my throat– ” **KICK!** “ – that’s for groping my breast and twisting my nipple–” **KICK!** “ – and that’s for fucking ruining my gorgeous Valdrin Sahiti gown with bloodstains, you imbecilic philistine!” **KICK!**

Pansy defensively plants her hands on her hips as she notes Hermione’s critical expression.

“What? I said I wouldn’t _kill_ him… the chains became entangled with my shoe, if anyone questions why his nuts are lightly punctured,” she smirks.

“Are you done? I really do need to focus here, Pansy,” Hermione gently chides.

“Yeah, yeah – do you need my wand back?”

“I don’t think so… Pansy, my – _our_ – magic feels so strong… it’s crazy how powerful it is,” Hermione confesses. “I need to take care how I use it, that’s all. So please: don’t savage him again unless he tries to escape, alright?”.

Pansy nods. “OK. You have my word.”

Relieved that Cormac will (probably) live to face trial for his myriad crimes, Hermione reapplies herself to breaking the dark spells surrounding the dungeon. She senses Draco at the other end of their soul-bond, steadily maintaining his own concentration as their magic continues to flow together and boost each other’s powers.

She easily locates and dismantles each wicked curse and booby-trapped protection, breaking them apart like brittle twigs as her anger at their intended effects increases by the second. Had she tried to summon Macdolas for help (as she had in the Ministry after Flint’s attack), the brave little elf would have been instantly decapitated. And if Draco and Harry had figured out their location before Hermione set to work – they would likely have been grievously maimed upon arrival, if not killed outright.

Hermione vanquishes the last of the evil defences and eagerly reaches out to her mind-linked mage.

 ** _Draco – we beat Cormac! He’s chained up on the floor, bleeding and sobbing. I’ve just finished eliminating all the nasty spellwork Flint and McLaggen laid down to keep everyone but them from this dungeon; can you come to us now, please?_** Hermione urges.

 ** _Are you safe? What of Pansy? Did he hurt you?_** Draco’s reaction is immediate.

**_We’re OK, Malfoy… he hurt Pansy’s breast earlier, I think, but she seems to be coping since I lifted her Petrification. She’s guarding Cormac. Do you know where we’ve are?_ **

**_Hold on, Granger – I’ll ask Potter._ **A few moments tick by.

 ** _He reckons you’re likely in McLaggen’s uncle’s secret hunting lodge in Suffolk – something about Luna knowing of it – he’s sent Gilmont to figure out the exact address. If she’s not back with the information in two minutes, I’ll use the bond to come to you myself. I’m confident that will work._** Draco’s joy and relief upon hearing of their victory plainly transmits across their telepathy.

 ** _I can’t wait to come home, Draco. I love you so much, do you know that? You’ve saved me, yet again._** Hermione’s eyes begin to fill as her adrenaline subsides.

**_You saved yourself, sweetheart. My clever, powerful,_ spectacular _Hermione. I love you more. Stay safe,_ ma petite _._**

After blowing Draco an ‘air kiss’ across their metaphysical link, Hermione spins on her heel to tell Pansy what’s happening. She interrupts the brunette witch vindictively whispering in Cormac’s ear… probably muttering dark promises of vengeance, if McLaggen’s terrified expression is any indicator of content.

Pansy nonchalantly rises to her feet. “He’s whining that one of his testes burst when my heel unfortunately connected with it… I’ve offered to cut it off with his own dagger, but he declined,” she drolly informs.

“Are we going to blow this popsicle stand, or what?” she quizzes.

“Draco said Harry is waiting on an address – but if they can’t find it, Draco will use our soul-bonded magic to Apparate here,” Hermione advises.

“Soul-bonded magic…? Aren’t you a dark horse, Pollyanna! Kept that little snippet to yourselves, didn’t you?” Pansy breathes in amazement. “I’m bloody glad you did, though – watching you decimate this unsuspecting arsehole was sensational.”

She peers curiously at their mewling, blood-spattered captive. “Whose idea was it to enspell your golden headband? Never mind – this screams ‘Lord Malfoy’. Nice work,” she nods approvingly.

Hermione chances broaching a sensitive subject. “Pansy, when we go back… will you please see a Healer? With me? I think we both need to decompress… and talk to a professional counsellor,” she hesitantly suggests. “Plus, that knife wound on your throat needs attention.”

“No. It’s a mere scratch – I’ll sort it myself when I go home,” Pansy’s flat refusal isn’t surprising, but it is disheartening. She drops her eyes back to Cormac, her face blank.

“I’m sorry– I’m so sorry I dragged you into this mess, Hermione– I never meant to endanger you, I was so fucking stupid, running away like I did! I just wanted to escape from the look on– ” Pansy’s mouth clamps closed in a stubborn, unhappy line.

“Oh, Pansy, none of this is your fault!” Hermione rushes to absolve her friend of guilt. “It’s all on Cormac, and Marcus – not you. Listen, I know you’re angry with Harry; but he never meant to hurt you, I’m positive of that. He was so angry with himself that he’d upset you. He was just shocked by Ron’s idiotic, jealous interference,” she consoles. “Please, just give Harry a chance to explain, and apologize, Pansy.”

“I don’t want to talk about Potter– or Weasley,” Pansy icily replies. “Leave it, please.”

Multiple pops ring out in the underground prison, preventing Hermione from attempting any further persuasion. She barely has time to delicately rub Pansy’s cold upper arm in a sympathetic gesture before they are surrounded by their ‘crew’ of witches and wizards.

Hermione’s jubilant grin deepens as Draco hurtles toward her, bundling her into his strong arms. His embrace is fearsomely tight and all-encompassing; she isn’t sure which of them is shaking more, as they tenaciously wrap around each other.

“My beautiful witch– _ma petite lionne_ – my sweet, smart, savage Hermione– I love you so, I love you, I love you– “ Draco smothers her hair, face and neck in dozens of trembling little kisses. Their noses bump as Hermione fervidly attempts to return each smooch.

“Oh, hell– sorry, Draco– let me kiss you back, _mon chéri_!” Hermione half-laughs, half-reproves, as Draco’s campaign to rain kisses on every inch of her available skin shows no sign of abating. “I love you too, my sexy Slytherin wizard! Kiss my mouth, kiss me properly,” she commands, in her bossiest tones.

Before Draco energetically complies, Hermione absently perceives Ginny and Luna descending on Pansy, hugging her carefully. Harry, Gilmont and Faulkner encircle Cormac’s hog-tied form, though Harry’s fierce expression briefly transforms to raw longing and regret as he stares at Pansy’s down bent head. Blaise, Theo and Viktor swap scowls as they glance around the tricked-out torture chamber.

Draco’s blazing kiss wipes all other thoughts from Hermione’s overjoyed mind; she wholly succumbs to the bliss she always receives from his kiss… his touch… his love. As their caress amplifies and grows ever more passionate, Hermione is vaguely conscious of their friends gasping.

Their recently conjoined magic is determined to put on a show, it seems; firefly-like pinpricks of multicoloured light circulate about them, scattering to swirl playfully around their companions’ heads. Draco reluctantly disconnects their lips to bat irritably at the mystic swarm.

“Malfoy – that’s our magic you’re swatting at!” Hermione giggles, euphoric at being reunited with him.

“It can piss off and give me five damned minutes to kiss my girl silly, can’t it?” Draco grumbles. “And what are you lot rubbernecking at? Anyone would think you’d never seen a supernatural manifestation of pure love and power before.”

“Come on, Hermione – let’s get out of here, my warrior queen.”

“Hold up, you two,” Harry chimes in. “We need to take your statements – the sooner the better. Gilmont, Luna: can you please escort Miss Parkinson back to the Ministry, and make her comfortable in my office? I’ll organize a Healer to meet you there.’

“Faulkner, I’ll need you to return to the Gala and organize the release of the party-goers. Find Pritchard-Hawes and ask him to ready a cell at Azkaban– I’m not wasting time holding this prick in one of the DMLE’s detention cells. We’ve enough evidence to imprison him for decades.’

“Viktor – would you please see Ginny back safely; and Blaise and Theo, you can go home, I’ll notify you tomorrow if I require statements from you,” Harry concludes.

Draco arrogantly corrects, “No deal, Potter – we’re heading home. We’re going to have a hot, cleansing bath together, and then we’re going to go to bed. You can come by in the morning… _late_ in the morning,” he gruffly underscores.

“I want to go with Luna and Pansy,” Blaise argues. “Theo, can you please collect Gelsy for me, when you pick up Wirey?”

“Shit – I forgot about Kreacher,” Harry guiltily exclaims. “Nott, if you wouldn’t mind sending him home for me too, please?”

“Bloody house elf party! Look, we’ll send them back ourselves when we get home, alright? Or they can stay over, I really have no fucks left to give. Hermione’s exhausted, and if I stay here any longer I’ll kill that slimy worm on the floor myself,” Draco snipes. “I’ll thank you all properly tomorrow.”

Hermione lays her tired head against Draco’s heart. _He’s right – I’ve crashed all of a sudden. Too much excitement for one day, as Dad likes to say._

“Draco… maybe everyone can come back to the townhouse when they’ve finished at the Ministry,” she sleepily cajoles. “Please? I want to make sure they’re all OK… especially Pansy.”

“Like I can deny you anything, Granger,” Draco cavils, his glad smile belying his complaint.

He speaks authoritatively to the rest of the group. “Alright, you can drop in when you’re done– but if we’re still upstairs when you arrive, collect your elves and go: I won’t be held responsible for my actions if you wake up my girlfriend. And be prepared for Macdolas to be guarding the Floo with extreme righteousness, once he learns of what’s gone on tonight,” he cautions.

“Thank you, Malfoy. See you soon, guys.” Hermione pins a quiet smile on her face and waves goodbye to her friends.

**_Take me home, please, Draco._ **

**_With pleasure. Hold tight, Hermione… I have you, mon âme sœur._ **


	12. Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A combination of Pansy and Harry's viewpoints here, as they cope with the aftermath of the abduction.

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

“Please stay still, Pansy; Mediwitch Martha is almost finished.” Luna’s sweet, concerned voice makes it impossible for Pansy to snap at her.

 _Damn Potter for sneakily instructing Luna to stick to me like glue. I just want to get out of here before he returns – I want to go home, take a full dose of Dreamless Sleep and sink into blessed oblivion for the next eight or so hours. Is that really too much to ask, after the fucking night I’ve had?!_ Pansy’s jaw aches as tension builds from her grimly clamped teeth.

“All done,” the bubbly young Healer announces, flying the used swabs, ointments and packaging into her medical kit. “Now, it’s up to you whether you’d like me to counsel you alone, or with Luna present; everyone’s different, but many people often find having a support person in the room beneficial.”

“It’s a moot point – I don’t want any bloody counselling, as I’ve repeatedly stated,” Pansy growls, glaring at the baby-faced Martha. _Honestly, has she even finished school? She’s sporting lopsided pigtails, for the love of snakes._

“But, Pansy… if you don’t talk over and process your feelings, you won’t be spiritually healthy – and I promised Harry and Hermione that I wouldn’t leave your side until you were well,” Luna sorrowfully points out. The little blonde shrugs defeatedly. “I’ll just have to move in with you and ask for a leave of absence from Hogwarts, until you’re ready for therapy.”

Pansy coughs out a dry, humourless laugh. “Way to apply the emotional blackmail, Luna. I’d look like an absolute whiny bitch if I didn’t accede to the wretched counselling, now.”

Admitting defeat, Pansy irritably waves at the door. “Alright, alright, I’ll talk to Martha, OK? But in private, please – not that I don’t appreciate your support, Luna... but I’d rather do this alone.”

“Of course. I’ll be outside, waiting with Theo.” Luna affectionately pats Pansy’s tensed hand on her way out of the room. “I’m proud of you, Pansy. You’re strong, and courageous: but it’s not weakness to accept a little help now and then. It’s just science, really… we cannot achieve growth without change.” She smiles felicitously, carefully closing the door behind her.

 _Luna Lovegood… you’re almost too good to be true. I wish I had even a smidgeon of your sweet spirit… well, that’s not true, I do delight in being a bitch._ Pansy’s lips curve in an almost-smile.

“She’s a smart cookie, your friend,” Mediwitch Martha genially remarks. “It helps to surround yourself with people who love and support you.”

 _Here we go._ Pansy agitatedly bounces upright from the shabby visitor’s chair she was forced to perch on while her throat wound was being treated. The voluminous folds of the crimson Auror robes (that Potter had tenaciously insisted on lending her before he’d allowed her to leave McLaggen’s basement) swoosh audibly with her jerky movements.

“Listen, Mediwitch Martha– ”

“Just Martha’s fine, I told you that before, Pansy– ”

“Maybe for _you_ it is – and since when did we start referring to Healers by their first names? What’s wrong with retaining some traditional formality?” Pansy gripes. “Where was I going with this? Right: I agreed to this session to get Luna off my back, but I don’t want to talk about my sloppy emotions and fears and secrets and trauma for the next however long, alright?!”.

“So you lied to your friend? Your friend who loves you enough to put her life on hold to ensure your well-being?” Martha calmly asks. “That’s interesting.”

“Oh no no no – don’t start on me with that psychobabble – I know all the tricks of your trade, _Martha_ ,” Pansy irefully declares. “This isn’t my first trip down Morbid Memory Lane, I’ve–” she abruptly breaks off, throat seizing as a horrible mix of old and new abusive memories inundate her consciousness. _Cormac cruelly twisting my breast… other despised hands, moving across my frozen body… threats of domination… threats of alienation… pain… hopelessness… abandonment…_

She isn’t aware she is swaying unsteadily until Martha gently steers her back into the dusty chair. “I’m sorry, Pansy. You don’t have to say a word, if you don’t wish to. Please know that this is a safe space for you, and I am here for you. You’re safe now, Pansy.”

Hunching in on herself, Pansy trembles as she brings her vine wood wand to her chest; she hasn’t relinquished her white-knuckled grip on the wand since Hermione gave it back to her in that repulsive dungeon.

“I hate feeling powerless… I never want to feel like a victim again,” her words are little more than a hoarse croak. “I’ve worked really hard to get to where I am today… and right now, I feel like a frightened, lonely little girl again – it hurts, Martha. I’m hurting,” she croaks.

The dam has broken. Pansy sobs convulsively. _This is going to be the Ugliest Cry of all Ugly Cries, she thinks dolefully. Ah, fuck it._

* * *

Harry watches in grim satisfaction as Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes and his Auror team prepare a snivelling, bleating Cormac McLaggen for transportation to Azkaban. The magical black chains Pansy trussed around Cormac in an efficient hog-tie are replaced with thick manacles and a metal muzzle.

“He looks like a biter; best not to take any chances,” Pritchard-Hawes laconically states. His dark brown eyes rake appraisingly over Harry’s drained face.

“Good job, Potter. Pass on my congratulations to Gilmont and Faulkner. We’ve a long week ahead of us, but I recommend you go home and get a decent night’s sleep, Harry. You look near dead on your feet.”

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll return to the Ministry and ensure all’s under control there before I leave for the night,” Harry answers. _I need to see Pansy; I need to see for myself that she’s going to be OK._ He claws at his hair in frustration at the delay.

“You’ll want to check on Miss Parkinson, I reckon… as a material witness, of course,” Pritchard-Hawes slyly observes. “She did a real number on McLaggen’s testes… accidentally stepped on them, you say?” he probes, not bothering to disguise his approving smirk.

“Correct, sir. Stiletto heels, you understand.” Harry folds in his malicious grin.

“Ah. As regards my earlier recommendation, Potter: it’s an order. Finalize the most pressing business at the Ministry tonight – then go home, sleep the sleep of the just, and do not come back into work until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. Don’t make me have you physically removed from the premises, Harry – I mean it. You’re worked tirelessly on this case for weeks, and you’re in grave danger of burning out.” The Head Auror fixes Harry with a stern stare.

“Agreed?”.

“Yes, sir,” Harry reluctantly accedes, fidgeting at his jacket buttons. “Thank you.”

Pritchard-Hawes briefly claps his lanky hand on Harry’s shoulder. “When you see Miss Parkinson – tell her the Ministry thanks her, too,” his tiny wink could almost be construed as a facial tic. “Goodnight, Potter.”

Harry has just completed giving final directions to the bustling Aurors collecting evidence in McLaggen’s basement when Hermione’s otter Patronus cavorts around his trouser legs. His mouth drops open as his best friend’s final blithe information about having a new kitten sinks in.

 _I’ll leave off thinking about whatever the hell that means until tomorrow’s brunch._ He pulls off his spectacles to rub at his blurring eyes. _It’s over… or it soon will be. Hermione and Pansy are safe… and we’ve taken a couple of dangerous, disgusting predators off the streets._

Harry’s flare of exultation withers as he soberly considers that Flint and McLaggen undeniably had help: the research potioneers, the underground network, possibly even Walden MacNair. _We’ll find those bastards, too – I won’t stop until each rock spider is located and prosecuted._

_But right now… I have to figure out the best way to grovel at Pansy’s feet and beg her forgiveness – for acting like a judgmental dickhead when Ron barged in on us. Shit. This is not going to be easy, not by a long shot._

Harry nods curtly at his workmates before Disapparating back to the Ministry.

* * *

Pansy is almost asleep (leaning against Theo’s comforting shoulder) when a quiet knock sounds at the door.

“It’s me, Harry; may I come in?”.

Keeping her arm slung over Pansy’s back, Luna trills, “Yes, we’ve been waiting for you, Harry. Pansy wants to speak with you, before we leave.”

“Luna! I never said– ” Pansy’s eyes jolt open to collide with Harry’s intense emerald gaze as he slips inside his office. Her tummy flips as she takes in how spent and regretful he looks. Pansy hardens her resolve and staunchly ignores his pleading regard. _Not my problem_.

On her other side, Theo stands, stretching ostentatiously. “I’m feeling a bit stiff from these terrible excuses for chairs you have, Harry – might just go for a bit of a trot to loosen up. Luna, want to keep me company?”.

“Excellent idea, Theo. We’ll be back in a jiffy, Pansy. Then we can all head back to the townhouse,” Luna decrees.

“Ah, about that – Hermione sent me a message, she asked if everyone can come around for brunch, instead. About eleven, she said. The elves are staying there overnight, Theo,” Harry diffidently tells them.

Pansy senses him moving closer, though she doesn’t lift her sore and swollen eyes from her lap; her fingers continue to compulsively pleat at the borrowed scarlet uniform robes. _Go away, Harry Potter._

“Good, good – well, we can all stay at my place tonight, if that’s alright? I’ve plenty of spare rooms, and I’d rather not go home alone,” Theo softly admits.

“Lovely idea, Theo,” Luna springs up, threading her arm through his. “Pansy, we shan’t be long, dear.”

The pair walk outside before Pansy can do more than crossly chirrup in protest. Her attempt to rise is blocked as Harry kneels before her.

“Pansy, are you alright? How’s the cut on your neck? Was the Mediwitch helpful with crisis counselling?” Harry petitions.

Keeping her eyes studiously averted, Pansy answers in a monotone. “I’m fine; the cut will heal without scarring; I spoke to Martha. I can take care of myself, Auror Potter.”

“Hey – please, won’t you look at me? Just for a moment? There’s something I’d like – there’s something I need to say to you,” Harry entreats.

The urgency in his voice almost causes Pansy to rethink her pledge to keep her distance. _I don’t need more emotional baggage: after tonight’s therapy, I already feel like I’ve overpacked an entire Louis Vuitton luggage set… chockfull of overpriced angst and bullshit._

“I’d rather you didn’t – here, just let me get out of your robes and I’ll be on my way– ” Pansy manages to whack herself in the head as the long red sleeve catches on a hairpin buried in the bedraggled remains of her chignon.

“Hold on, you’re making it worse– wait– ” Pansy stops flailing as Harry’s gentle fingers brush against her neck. She fights the impulse to lean in to his benevolent touch.

Harry clumsily tucks the offending hairpin back into her straight brunette locks; Pansy struggles not to visibly quiver. He shifts his hands to rest on the arms of her seat as he speaks again. She bends forward in a little, drawn by his warmth and spicy, musky scent.

“Pansy, I’m so sorry that I reacted badly when Ron interrupted us so rudely– and meanly. I never meant to imply that I thought less of you, just because –”

“ –Just because I had sexual intercourse with your best friend?” Pansy coolly replies. “I saw the expression on your face, Potter. It spoke volumes.”

She chances making eye contact, regretting it instantly as she realizes Harry’s nearness. His hair is adorably unkempt, and the smear marking one of his lenses has her reaching to wipe it clean before she can stop herself.

Harry holds perfectly still as Pansy removes his spectacles, his viridian green eyes trained on her face with heart-stopping intensity.

Polishing the glasses with the soft cotton of Harry’s Auror robes, Pansy holds her breath as she slides them back into place.

“You should take better care of yourself – and your things,” she grumbles.

“May I– may I hold your hand, please? I don’t want to trigger you… I can’t stop myself from wanting to touch you, Pansy.” Harry’s voice transmits his anxiety. “Not without your permission, of course.” His hand hovers above her lap, until she gives a minute nod.

Harry captures her fingers instantaneously, loosely wrapping her smaller hand in his. His work-roughened thumb delicately strokes her palm, as Pansy succumbs to the bliss of his tender caress. _I’ll doubtless despise myself for my weakness come tomorrow… but damn, Harry’s attention feels so good… like he_ cares _._

“Pansy, I apologize wholeheartedly for my poor reaction, in the ballroom. I truly never meant to hurt you, and I bitterly regret that I let Ron come between us… that I let his spite ruin a beautiful moment,” Harry’s words are quiet but unmistakably impassioned.

“Dancing with you was everything I dreamed it would be. You feel so right in my arms, Pansy. I’d give anything to go back to that moment, and to not hurt you with my idiotic, momentary lapse of reason. I’ll never forgive myself for being the impetus for placing you in danger– for upsetting you to the point where you were desperate to escape even being in the same room as me– Merlin, I’m sorry… when I think of what you suffered tonight– ” Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs crazily as his words dry up.

Pansy is shocked when a tear twists down Harry’s cheek. She lifts her pinkie in wonderment, blotting its path. _He’s crying… over me? **Me**??_ Pansy’s own eyes well as the extent of Harry’s concern and… affection swamps her sensitive psyche.

“Stop it– I already look like a clown, I’ve cried buckets tonight! I utterly detest crying, especially in front of people– just don’t, Potter!” she gulps.

“I wish you’d call me Harry again. I’m sorry I hurt you, Pansy. If you truly don’t want anything more to do with me, I promise to leave you in peace,” Harry mumbles.

 _This is what I told myself I wanted – so why can’t I confirm it aloud? Why am I still holding Harry’s hand, and feeling my heart crumple at his genuine, pained remorse? Why do I just want him to hold me tightly and tell me everything’s going to be OK?_ Pansy agonizes.

_Too many rotten, romantic fairy tales, probably. Sod it – I can’t do it… though I’m not ready to admit how vulnerable I am to him. Charming, bleeding-heart Gryffindors!_

“I accept your apology,” Pansy blurts. The relief and joy that flashes through Harry’s moist eyes kicks up her pulse.

“It’s not your fault – what happened, with McLaggen. It’s mine, for being an emotional fucking idiot and endangering my friends – Cormac called me a tethered goat, and I acted like one,” Pansy says. “Although Hermione delivered the headbutt,” she ruefully adds.

Harry’s small chuckle is more thankful than humorous. “None of this is your fault – none of it, Pansy.” His eyes darken as he snarls, “Flint and McLaggen: a primitive part of me wishes them both dead and buried, Pansy. The depravities they had planned for you– that fucking _dungeon_ –”

“Harry – I know. I know how you feel… I wanted to slit Cormac’s worthless throat, I kind of still do,” Pansy confesses. “But Hermione was right – it’s better that he lives out the rest of his miserable days in a tiny cell, stewing in bitterness, malice, and loneliness. And you need to question them both, to find out the true extent of their foul scheme, right?” she urges.

A pause, as Harry’s mouth works furiously.

“I know– and I know Hermione’s right– but when I think about what could have happened… Pansy, when I saw Cormac holding that dagger to your throat, I wanted to kill him on the spot – consequences be damned.”

Harry’s fierce gaze is steady as he appends, “I wasn’t thinking like an Auror, Pansy; I wanted him dead because he dared to harm you. _You_ ,” he stresses.

 _Morgana’s garter belt – how am I supposed to resist him, now?_ Pansy squeaks, “May I hug you, Har– oh!”

She curls her arms around Harry’s back as he fluidly stands, scooping her out of the chair and gingerly gathering her against his tremulous body.

“I always seem to be apologizing to you – it must be because I’m a hot-headed dummy,” Harry murmurs into her ear. Pansy cuddles as close as she dares, revelling in his muscularity, warmth, and wiry strength.

“Will you please give me another chance, Pansy? A chance for… us?” Harry asks, his tones low and uncertain.

Heart leaping wildly, Pansy draws back from their embrace to slowly respond, “I’ll… think about it. Harry– I don’t know if I have whatever it is you need… I’ve got some work to do, on myself,” she stumblingly explains. “What happened tonight… it’s made me face up to past issues I thought I’d properly handled. I don’t want to give you false hope that I– that we– ”

To her surprise, Harry takes her bumbling attempt at clarification with good grace.

He reaches for her hands, waiting for her to raise them in acceptance before lacing her fingers between his.

“Pansy – I’ll take whatever you’re ready, and willing, to give. There’s no rush… I’m not going anywhere,” he avers, smiling happily as her cheeks heat.

“Oh – um, OK,” Pansy blathers. “Here – your robes…” she starts to pull away her hands to reach for the hem, but is stymied by Harry’s rapid negation.

“Keep them for now, I’ve another set. I want you to stay warm, and get some rest,” Harry bosses. “I’ll see you at brunch, tomorrow?”. The hope in his words and visage is plain as day.

“Y-Yes,” she stammers. “I’ll launder your uniform, before I give it back, of course.”

“Please don’t, Pansy… I’d very much enjoy having my robes smell like you,” Harry grins.

Her flush deepens. _Cheeky, sexy flirt!_

A light tap at the door before Luna eagerly pokes her head around it. “Hullo! You two look like you’re… friends again?”. Her china blue eyes glitter with satisfied merriment. “Ready to go, Pansy? Poor Theo is grouching about needing his beauty sleep,” Luna jests.

“Yes, I’m ready. Goodnight… Harry,” Pansy tugs at their handhold, but Harry doesn’t release her fingers until he has dropped a little kiss to each wrist.

“Goodnight, Pansy,” he smiles broadly.

Pansy pivots at the door, unable to resist a final peek at the brunet Auror.

She ignores Luna’s giggle, staring incredulously as Harry Potter blows her not one, but two kisses. Pansy hurries out the door before her whole face catches fire, Luna close behind.

“You’re supposed to catch them, you know,” Luna chides. “What if they landed on me – or Theo?”.

“What’s that, Luna? More Nargles?” Theo absently queries, falling into step beside them as they move down the corridor.

“No, Theo – just Harry pitching love at Pansy,” Luna rejoins, sounding serenely smug.

“That’s nice,” yawns Theo. “Come on, let’s get some rest.”

He offers the two witches his extended elbows; both tuck their arms through, smiling companionably at one another.

 _What a glorious, awful, traumatic, wonderful, strange night,_ Pansy marvels. She finally identifies the odd feeling floating somewhere in the vicinity of her bruised heart.

It feels like warm, soft cotton robes, and calloused hands; it sounds like a deep, confident tenor; it smells like cinnamon and clean male musk; and it looks a helluva lot like Harry James Potter.

_Hope. He gives me hope._

_And I’m a total, silly, helpless fool for it… for him._

_Dammit._


	13. Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just before this interlude, Ron has gatecrashed the Granger-Malfoy brunch to begin his Grand Apology Tour.
> 
> I realize it's a bit disjointed, and will work on drawing the narrative together properly when I have some more time.
> 
> 'Hansy' is now officially 'Handsy', I think...

Harry tries to dismiss Ron’s pitiful face from his mind, as the distant sound of his best friend’s rapidly retreating footfalls begins to fade. He resolves to harden his heart against the guilt and regret he is experiencing.

_I meant what I said – we do need a breather. Ron will never be motivated to change his selfish ways unless he truly understands that his rash actions often have damaging consequences. I’m really going to miss the big pillock, though._

Harry’s deep sigh is cut short when Pansy shyly curves a hand around his neck, rubbing at his ear lobe. “Hey. Don’t beat up on yourself – you did the right thing, Harry. He’ll be alright – and hopefully he’ll use the time apart to work on his issues,” Pansy softly assures.

“I guess…” Harry shrugs, struggling to cast off his pervasive sense of melancholy and loss.

“Hop up,” Pansy tugs him upright with her. “Let’s talk privately – out of range of your ex, preferably,” she nods to Ginny, who is absorbed in a quiet conversation with Viktor, Luna, and Gus.

Harry obediently lets Pansy lead him from the room, giving a little wave as they pass the others. “Are you leading me astray, Pansy?” he teases, as she bypasses the staircase and continues down the back hallway.

“You wish,” the brunette quips, opening and closing a couple of doors before deciding upon one. “This will do.” She plunks down on the small single bed, flicking on the lamp… which in turn triggers the illumination of multiple strings of fairy lights.

Squinting, Harry observes, “This must be Macdolas’s bedroom… I think he might have a Gryffindor fetish.” Almost everything is red, crimson, scarlet, or cerise, including the bedding and the curtains.

“I think it’s his love nest – check this out,” Pansy hands him a framed Polaroid photograph of Mac and Ruibby, snogging each other to the point where their long noses appear to be somehow fused. The angle is odd; Harry realizes that they must have taken the snapshot at arm’s length.

 _Malfoy talks tough about his house elf… but this room proves beyond a doubt how much the blond prat cares for his cheeky little steward._ Harry shakes his head, amazed by the difference between poor Dobby’s treatment, and Macdolas’s customized living quarters.

“Are you OK, Harry? I know that was a difficult confrontation for you,” Pansy interrupts his musings. She keeps his hand in hers, delicately outlining his palm lines with her fingertips. “Ron’s been your friend – your brother, in actuality – for half your lifetime.”

“He has – but just because I love him, doesn’t mean I can continue to tolerate his behaviour,” Harry replies. “Last night was the final straw for me, Pansy. Yes, I understand – in my head – that Ron didn’t mean for Cormac to snatch you, and hurt you; but my heart is still enraged,” he confesses.

“Harry – I never want you to feel you have to choose between me, and your bestie – shit, I don’t mean to presume that I’m _that_ important to you – what I’m trying to say, is that I’m not expecting –”

“Pansy – never doubt you are of the utmost importance to me,” Harry urgently interrupts. “I haven’t chosen between the two of you – but you will _always_ come first. And– erm– I want to tell you– I want to ask you if I can– court you properly, for want of a better term,” he shuffles closer on the bed, dismissing his nerves to gaze intensely into her gorgeous jade eyes.

“C-Court me? Harry, I don’t expect– ” Pansy’s eyes are enormous, reflecting both shock and cautious joy.

“I do. I want to know you, Pansy – I want to know your mind, and your spirit… I want to know all the things that make you, _you_ … the big and the small, the silly and the substantial. I want to know if you like pickles on your burger; if you prefer windy days to rainy nights; if you’d rather watch a sunset, or a sunrise. I want to take you to the movies; I want to watch you at work; I want to know what’s your favourite meal… and I want to stop making impassioned speeches like an absolute tosser,” Harry wryly laughs at his earnest monologue.

“No one’s ever… been interested in me like that, before,” Pansy looks like a lost puppy; she splays her fingers over the near side of her face, hiding her expression.

Gently lifting away her hand, Harry waits for her eyes to connect with his.

“Their loss. We’re going to do this properly, Pansy.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that, Harry,” she hesitantly conveys. “Does that mean you don’t want to have sex with me?” she baldly asks.

“Of course I want to– I mean, I want to make love with you, Pansy… when we know each other. Properly. With– with true intimacy, I mean.” Harry blushes as Pansy lifts a quizzical black brow.

“Like – we wait a fortnight, or until some other arbitrary marker has been met?” she seems genuinely baffled.

“No: I mean, we’ll know when we’re both ready.” Harry’s tender heart aches thinking of the lack of care Pansy’s been shown, in the past. He impulsively pulls her onto his lap, deciding a little kiss will help to seal the deal.

Leaning in, Harry hovers his lips a quarter inch from hers; not closing the distance is agonizing, but he must ensure Pansy wants this as much as he does. Her minty, strawberry fragrance is heady and beguiling.

Harry has just closed his eyes when Pansy launches forward, toppling him onto his back. She twines around him, making his breath hitch as she ardently drinks freely of his parted mouth. Any vestigial thought he has of taking things slowly is blown out of the water. Harry meets her explorative hands with his own fevered strokes, thoroughly enjoying charting the graceful curves of Pansy’s bum and hips beneath her borrowed black stovepipe trousers.

Pansy’s kisses are an enchanting mix of sweet and savage; she nips at his lower lip one moment, her tongue tip soothing the tiny sting in the next instant. Harry’s head is swimming, his glasses knocked askew, and his breathing frayed.

 _By Merlin – this woman sets me afire every single time… how on earth am I to restrain myself from wanting to tumble her into bed whenever I see her?!_ Harry groans internally as he considers how he’s just narrated a pretty speech resulting in basically cockblocking himself. _I am a total fucking idiot._

Disoriented by their mounting passion, Harry fails to notice the door opening.

“Macdolas does not object to The Most Revered Excellency Auror Harry Potter and the Perfectly Pulchritudinous Miss Pansy Parkinson utilizing Macdolas’s bedroom as a libidinous rendezvous location – though he begs humble leave to be informed prior to such activities taking place!” Macdolas squalls. He skips to the bed to retrieve his elfish selfie, placing it carefully back in position atop his dresser. The mannikin’s air of aggrieved affront is evident in his crossed arms and beetled brow.

Pansy lazily lifts her head from Harry’s liberally hickey-marked throat, smirking wickedly. “Sorry, Mac. Give us a couple of minutes, and we’ll be on our way.” She ignores Macdolas’s unintelligible grumble as she bestows a last scorching kiss to Harry’s damp, puffy mouth. Her smooth dark locks gloriously tickle his inflamed skin as she turns her head to address Macdolas.

“We’re getting to know one another… it was all Harry’s idea,” she teases. “I adore what you’ve done with the place, by the way.”

Ire forgotten, Macdolas preens and begins touting the ‘special features’ of the converted boxroom.

Harry stares dazedly at Pansy as the perky elf’s animated discourse on the benefits of his Extendable Wardrobe rambles on in the background.

She smiles back at him… a slightly bashful, vulnerable beam, imbued with trust, and hope. His breath catches as he realizes she’s showing him her willingness to try for a real relationship… with him.

Harry sits up to hug her tightly.

_Oh, Pansy… I am going to do everything I can to make you see how absolutely special you are._

_I promise._


End file.
